


Ignite

by AngelOfTheMoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, BAMF Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Characters as Police Officers, Police, Police Officer Dean, Vampire Castiel, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 86,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating a lead regarding a serial killer, Dean Winchester suffers a beating. When he wakes up, he discovers a stranger named Castiel has been caring for him. But Castiel has a secret--he is a vampire. He is not like other vampires, however. His mission is to protect humankind, and he has been pursuing the serial killer, too. Will the friendship between Dean and Castiel endure the trials ahead? Will their mutual attraction develop into something more?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Broken Man

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> I didn't think I was going to write any more fic, but apparently Destiel won't leave me alone.
> 
> Warnings for violence; this chapter contains a gory sight. There should be another sort of explicit content, eventually. More tags will probably be added when they become relevant.
> 
> I'm not sure about this idea . . . It includes more violence and sex (further down the road) than I usually feel able to write. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this first chapter! If you like it, pretty please let me know (with kudos, comments, bookmarks, subscriptions, etc.), as I'm likely to update more quickly if there seems to be interest in the story. As always, thanks for stopping by!

Dean had tracked his target to this abandoned warehouse. He stands in the middle of a large room, flashlight sweeping over space extending as far as the eye can see, floor an impersonal slate color.

Perhaps he should call for backup, he reflects. But he’s not sure if he has enough time.

He’d believed this tip would lead to a dead end like all the others, but each scrap of information about the monster had to be followed up. Five mangled and scarred dead bodies had already been found, and there was no telling how many missing persons were victims as well. The strange thing about this serial killer was that there seemed to be no pattern: the five individuals had included a young woman, a young man, a middle-aged man and woman, and a nine-year-old boy.

Dean still sees that last one in his nightmares.

The lack of a discernible pattern renders profiling useless.

Every day, tips pour in, and the police department devotes most of its resources to investigating each and every one.

It just so happened that, tonight, this one was assigned to Dean. A woman had called, claiming to have seen a man dragging a body around somewhere in the industrial district. She’d been driving through the area, and she hadn’t gotten a good look at the figures, but she could’ve _sworn_ that’s what she’d observed.

Another crackpot, he and his colleagues had agreed. Still, it needed to be checked out.

And so now Dean is here.

And _son of a bitch_ , there’d actually been a man prowling around. When he’d spotted the man, he’d pointed his gun at the guy’s back and ordered him to turn around with his hands up.

Instead, the man had glanced at Dean over his shoulder, proffering a chilling grin. Dean had instinctively shivered.

And he’d known: _That’s him. That’s the fuckin’ monster_.

The man had scurried off, and Dean had been momentarily paralyzed by the memory of his empty eyes. But he shook himself and rushed after the man into this building.

And he’d lost the guy.

Which way could he have gone? Dean surveys his surroundings, but he's clueless.

Whatever. He chooses a direction (the back seems to make the most sense) and jogs toward it.

When he reaches the small area by the back door, he claps a hand over his mouth to stifle a scream. He doesn’t want to give himself away.

But he can’t restrain a sharp gasp.

There, hanging from the railings lining the second floor, three bodies. Two men and a woman.

It’s a lot to absorb. Dean’s not sure what the worst part is—maybe the fact that he can’t even determine whether these people are alive or dead.

He shudders, hoping that they’re dead and not still suffering.

Knife wounds crisscross their faces, their arms and legs, at least half of the skin that’s exposed. IVs are attached to both wrists, hooked up to slender tubes through which blood flows into a large white ceramic bowl directly underneath the bodies.

“Fuck . . . me,” Dean hisses under his breath.

“I’d love to,” an oily voice declares behind him.

Dean whirls around, but he’s too slow, and this man is so goddamn _fast_ , it’s uncanny.

He raises a fist and slams it against Dean’s cheeks. More blows rain onto Dean, the strength behind them enormous.

The man kicks at Dean’s shin, and his knees crash into the concrete.

“Son of a . . . ” Dean whispers, but the taste of blood brings his utterance to an abrupt halt.

With a knife, the man slashes at Dean’s body. Dean is acutely aware of white-hot pain reverberating throughout his entire being; it is the only sensation present. His vision is practically nonexistent.

How had the bastard gotten such a jump over him? Dean wasn’t usually this easy to undermine.

A crunch, and Dean cringes. This freakin’ lunatic was breaking him.

_Sorry, Sammy. I wish I could’ve said goodbye._

Dean’s last thought, then he breaks.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Alastair had proven difficult to pursue, but after months of puzzling out the clues, Castiel had finally found his prey in the flesh.

Alastair had been terrorizing the town, and his antics had drawn the attention of the human populace. Human detection threatened the entire community. Not that Castiel cared about the area’s other vampire denizens, but he would prefer to sustain his own survival.

 _But why?_ he often asks himself.

He doesn’t know.

Well, there is one thing. Preserving humankind from monsters, from becoming abominations like himself.

Protecting them from human monsters, too. These parties possess the only human blood he ever allows himself to indulge in.

Alastair has been hunting people and using their blood to supply his nest. Castiel would like nothing better than to eliminate Alastair’s nest, but there are too many members for him to take on alone. He isn’t sure how many individuals belong to Alastair’s nest, but he does know there are at least five of them. Probably more.

Alastair enjoys torturing his victims as well. Castiel had once witnessed the man’s cruel joy.

It all adds up to one fact: Alastair needs to go.

If Alastair is eliminated, the members of the nest will war with each other, perhaps flee. Alastair’s leadership is what holds them together.

Alastair disappears into one of the decrepit warehouses. Castiel is poised to follow him when he notices someone else.

A young man wielding a flashlight, wearing one of those blue uniforms he’s seen on humans before, hat with a rakish tilt. _Oh,_ Castiel remembers _, that is the garb of human law enforcement professionals_.

The man is chasing Alastair, unaware that his object is more than an ordinary serial killer.

A human is never a match for a vampire. It is a matter of speed and sharp reflexes.

What should he do? Focus on catching Alastair or saving the human?

The human, Castiel resolves.

He stalks inside after the man, so quiet the human will never notice him. For a few minutes, the man remains completely still, a confused expression on his face, his eyes darting wildly about the building. Eventually, he walks toward the back, and Castiel trails after him. The man gapes when he stumbles upon Alastair’s harvest.

Even Castiel, who has viewed unconscionable atrocities, is disturbed.

Festering welts pepper the bodies. Castiel detects the faint flutter of eyelids and clutches at his chest. These people are still alive. Nothing but playthings for Alastair and his devilish appetites.

“Fuck . . . me,” the law enforcement officer breathes.

“I'd love to,” a voice answers.

Alastair appears behind the man, on the brink of attack. Castiel, who had been gawking at the bodies, doesn’t have enough time to warn the man, and he curses his moment of weakness.

He continues to stare as Alastair destroys the man. He notes Alastair’s cording biceps, and he knows, not just from that, but from everything he’s observed over the past few months, that he is no match for the nest leader. If he intervenes now, he would merely delay Alastair’s attack, not stop it.

“Son of a . . . ” the man wheezes before licking the blood on his lips.

He will wait for Alastair to finish, Castiel decides, and hope the man isn’t dead by then. He despises his cowardice, but he is uncertain of what else to do.

As Alastair pummels the man, tears spring to Castiel’s eyes and flow down his cheeks.

He digs his fingernails into his palms.

After an eternity, Alastair bestows one final kick to the man’s stomach, laughs, and sprints away.

Castiel hurries to the man’s side. Thankfully, he is still breathing. Should he transport the human to a hospital? No, the personnel might ask Castiel too many questions. No doubt they could not assist the man anyway. Castiel knows how to heal him, but hospital staff would not be aware of the right remedies.

He must take the man home.

He shrinks at the thought. He has never allowed a human into his home. Then again, he has never tended to a man as wounded as this one.

All his fault for not having the courage to stand up to Alastair.

Should he notify the law enforcement professionals of the incident?

No, he thinks. Like the doctors, they would have too many questions for Castiel. Plus, when they arrive at the warehouse, the scene will be wiped clean. Alastair will ensure that.

He will return soon. If Castiel is to evade Alastair, he must leave _now_.

With hardly an effort, Castiel picks up the man, cradling him in his arms. The flashlight tumbles from inside the human’s jacket, clattering to the ground, where it spins for a minute, the light flickering across the walls before it settles on the three bodies above. Castiel swallows a feeling of nausea.

He ambles to his car several blocks away, gently lays the man on the backseat, and races home. It takes him entirely too long to reach the forest. Castiel turns onto a dirt road and winces at the repeated jolts to his vehicle. This jostling could exacerbate the man’s injuries.

Finally, Castiel pulls into the small lot in front of his cabin. He carries the man inside, not even bothering to close the back door of his car. His mind barely registers the screen door slamming shut behind him as he dashes into his bedroom and deposits the man on the twin-size mattress. He stretches out the man’s limbs and gazes at the bruises and cuts. Dressing his wounds will take hours.

After assessing the man’s injuries, Castiel rushes to the pantry and gathers the necessary items. He sets the human’s broken left arm first then attends to the cuts and bruises. He tosses the hat aside and divests the man of his clothes until he is in nothing but his boxers.

“Forgive me, law enforcement professional,” Castiel murmurs. For a split second, he admires the man’s muscled chest. He shakes his head and blushes even though no one can see him. He must not slow down.

When he finishes, he carefully tugs the clothes back onto the man’s body. He will not wake up for some time, and most likely he will retain a few scars, but the man will live. Heal. Castiel breathes a sigh of relief. He retrieves a rag, moistens it under the tap, and brushes it over the blood smeared across the man’s skin.

 _Who is he?_ Castiel wonders.

If he recalls correctly, human males tend to carry wallets that bear information about their person.

He rummages in the man’s pockets and discovers a worn leather wallet. He flips through the contents. Five one dollar bills, two credit cards, and a driver’s license. The man is certainly photogenic, his smile infectious, light in his hazel-green eyes, soft-looking dirty blonde hair. Freckles dust his cheeks, which makes him almost boyishly adorable.

It bears little resemblance to the ravaged face before him. The cuts and bruises are transposed over the freckles, his mouth a thin line, eyes closed, hair sticking out in all directions.

This is Castiel’s fault.

“I am sorry,” Castiel says as he collapses into a wooden chair by the bed. He reads the name on the license. “Dean Winchester.”

 _Dean Winchester_. That is his name. Dean Winchester.

The wallet also contains two photos. In the first, a young man with long shaggy brown hair stares back at him. The other shows a young couple beaming, a brunette man and blonde woman.

 _Who are these people?_ Castiel muses. They must mean a lot to Dean Winchester. _His family, perhaps_.

 _Family._ The thought evokes a melancholy mood.

He wishes for a family of his own. He was born into a family, of course, but that had been eons ago, and they had never been fond of him.

Castiel tucks the wallet back into the man’s—Dean Winchester’s—pocket and studies him. He grazes a thumb over Dean Winchester’s cheekbone and assures him, “You will be all right.” Can Dean Winchester even hear him? Opinions differ on the subject. Castiel likes to think he can, and with that thought, he squeezes Dean Winchester’s hand, letting it linger for a minute before retracting it.

Determination claws itself up Castiel’s throat.

Alastair must be stopped. He must endure what he has forced his victims to suffer.


	2. Bluer than Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I normally won't update this quickly, but I finished this chapter and felt like posting it, so here you go.
> 
> Warning for violence against animals.
> 
> I'd love to know your thoughts about this story! Kudos, comments, etc., are very welcome! As always, thanks for reading!

“Good morning, this is Cassie Robinson for Channel Four News. In today’s top story, there has been a new development in the hunt for a serial killer. A police officer has disappeared while working on the case. We turn to Becky Rosen, who is live on location where Officer Dean Winchester was dispatched before he vanished.”

The camera shifts from her to a blonde girl standing in front of a familiar run-down warehouse. She beams as she enthuses into her microphone, “Good morning, Cassie.” Her peppiness seems inappropriate for the story she is discussing.

“Good morning, Becky,” Cassie replies. “What can you tell us about the case?”

Becky gestures to the warehouse behind her. “Well, Cassie. Dean Winchester was last seen yesterday down at the precinct by his fellow officers, who say he was sent here to investigate an alleged sighting of the serial killer.” She walks a couple of paces to a police car, which the camera focuses on. “This is Officer Winchester’s vehicle. As you can see,” Becky explains, “he arrived at the scene, but no one has seen or heard from him since he left the precinct late last night.”

The camera returns to Cassie. “Do the authorities have any theories about what happened?”

Becky’s excitement seems to grow. “No one knows, Cassie. Some speculate that Officer Winchester found the killer and became a target. But with no evidence, it’s just that—idle speculation.”

“Thank you, Becky,” Cassie concludes. “If you have any information about Officer Winchester’s whereabouts, you are encouraged to notify the police.”

Castiel flips off the TV and rubs his eyes while leaning back against the used brown paisley couch. He has no intention of phoning the police. He could leave an anonymous tip, perhaps, but then he would have no choice but to reveal his location. Officer Winchester cannot be moved without sustaining any damage to his person, and Castiel does not want anyone to know where he lives. If anyone finds out, he will have to move, and Castiel has grown comfortable in his abode. He does not want to search for a new town and start over.

He must tend to Officer Winchester alone. When the man is well enough, Castiel will have to somehow cajole him into being dropped off at a neutral location before he is discovered. But how? _Don’t worry about that now_ , he tells himself. _Cross that bridge when you come to it._

Raw craving spikes through Castiel’s body. He has delayed long enough; he cannot put off nourishing himself any longer.

He shuffles to the refrigerator, opens it, and eyes the jars of blood. Only three left. He will need to replenish his supply today. He grabs one of the jars and twists off the cap before chugging its contents. He is disgusted with himself, but at the same time, the base part of himself savors the flavor of the sweet, sweet blood. When he is through, he swipes a wrist over his blood-encrusted mouth and stares at the residue before washing his face and hands at the kitchen sink.

He cannot allow Officer Winchester to stumble upon the refrigerator’s items when he awakes. He should put a lock on the appliance, Castiel decides. He throws open the door of the tiny coat closet and digs through the plastic bags piled up inside until he spots a padlock, which he slaps onto the refrigerator.

Now Castiel must attend to his blood bank. His stomach rumbles, and he realizes he is still famished. No wonder, for he didn’t feed last night. But he cannot risk the remaining two jars; he might not collect enough blood today. It depends on the harvest.

He gathers the empty jars into a carton and carries them outside, where he places them on the doorstep before venturing farther into the woods. A few tendrils of sunlight slip through the dense leafy canopy above him, and burns prick Castiel’s skin. He must complete the task as quickly as possible before his skin reddens too much.

He surveys the area around him and stalks toward a tree near which three squirrels loiter. They will do.

 _What makes feeding off animals any better than feeding off humans?_ Castiel ponders. _Are they also not living creatures?_

He is repulsed by himself.

But he must have blood, and if he will not take it from humans, he has to wrest it from animals.

For the millionth time, Castiel wonders if he should just let himself die. He is an unholy . . . _thing_. A monster. No matter if he uses his deranged talents to protect people; he is still a vile being.

 _Not now_ , he tells himself. _Not yet._ _I must help Officer Dean Winchester mend._

And so he has been given a purpose, for the present.

With that thought, Castiel snatches up a squirrel and wrings its neck in one fluid motion, flinching at the sharp _snap_. “I am sorry,” Castiel mumbles. “I tried to make it painless.”

At the sight of the blood oozing down the animal’s neck, Castiel can no longer reign in his appetite. He places his lips to the wound and sucks greedily, experiencing the same repugnance/euphoria he always does when he feeds. At the moment, he loathes himself even more for giving in to undead instinct without hesitation. When he doesn’t hold the creature in his hands, Castiel can sometimes block out the memory of its death, but looking into its eyes as he drinks . . . he feels his dirtiness all the more.

When the squirrel is drained, Castiel drops its carcass and collapses against the tree, trembling. He is so revolted by himself he cannot fathom continuing the hunt.

Yet he must. For Dean Winchester’s survival depends upon it.

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment and rests his head against the tree, steadying himself for more hunting.

After about fifteen minutes, he is finally capable of standing up again. He disposes of five more squirrels and carries the bodies back to the jar supply, where he bleeds them out. Squirrel blood does not last long; maybe next time he will be lucky enough to catch a deer.

He carries the box back into the house, unlocks the refrigerator, and stashes the full jars inside.

Officer Winchester cannot discover his true form. That would spell disaster. What else must he conceal? There aren’t many _objects_ , though he should lock the basement, he reminds himself. However, his behavior . . . Castiel will have to somehow hide that from Winchester once he regains consciousness.

And—groceries. He must purchase human food for Winchester.

Tonight, he resolves. He will visit one of their stores . . . an establishment called Wal-Mart . . . and buy food fit for Winchester’s consumption.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

When Dean’s eyes fly open, they don’t alight on the warehouse.

Instead, he is inside some ugly-ass room with peeling blue-and-white-striped wallpaper, a scratched-up desk, and a wooden chair facing his direction. He is laying in a bed with a faded red comforter and itchy purple sheets. The color combination—what an eyesore.

_Am I dead? Is this heaven?_

_Nah. Heaven can’t be this hideous. Hell?_

Through the open door, he spots a brown-haired man in the hallway. _What. The. Fuck._ He shifts in the bed, and everything hurts like a mother.

The stranger enters the room and smiles down at him. “Good morning,” he hums.

 _Damn. Look at those eyes. Bluer than blue._ Dean isn’t normally attracted to guys, but this man is so pretty Dean might consider going gay for him. “Who the hell are you?” he shouts.

“My name is Castiel,” the man answers.

“Castiel who?”

“Just address me as Castiel.”

 _Just address me as Castiel._ Who the fuck talks like that? So formal. And this guy is shady as all get-out. Who doesn’t have a last name?

Dean tries to sit up and winces as fire burns in his veins.

“Do not strain yourself, Mr. Winchester,” Castiel admonishes. “Your injuries are still fresh.” Dean glances down at his body and _yeah_ , he gets it. There’s a cast around his arm and scars all along his arms. His body feels as if it has been stretched out on a rack.

But he has another concern at the moment. “How the fuck do you know my name?”

“I looked in your wallet. I hope you do not mind, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean does _mind_ , thank you very much. It was an invasion of his privacy. But he bristles even more at being called Mr. Winchester. “Name’s Dean,” he slurs.

“You wish for me to address you as Dean?”

“Yeah, genius.” He pauses. “Now, you still haven’t told me. Who the hell are you?—”

“I communicated that information already. I am Castiel.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and ouch, how does that even hurt? “No, I mean. _Who are you?_ ”

Castiel’s expression is blank as he settles into the chair. “I do not comprehend the question.”

God, how dense could you get? “Are you in league with that monster—the serial killer?”

Castiel frowns. “No, I am not in league with Al—with the person of whom you speak.”

That’s a lie if he’s ever heard one. The guy slipped up, for chrissakes. “So you are!”

Castiel widens his eyes in horror and throws up his hands. “I would never!” There’s something so guileless in that bluer than blue that Dean believes him despite all logic to the contrary.

“Oh, yeah? Then how did I get here?” He sweeps his hand around the awful room, which he regrets a second later when pain flares up anew.

“Hmm. Well. I—” Castiel chews his lip. “—I found you.”

Dean snorts. “Very descriptive, Cas.” Castiel looks startled. “I’m sorry,” Dean amends, “you wanted me to call you Castiel?”

“No. Cas is fine.” A secretive grin blossoms on his lips. “I quite like it, actually. Please continue to use the moniker.”

God, but Cas sure talks weird. “Okay. How did you find me, Cas?”

“I was taking a walk?”

What's with the questioning tone? “Taking a walk? Through the industrial district in the middle of the night? Yeah, that doesn’t sound suspicious _at all_.”

“I find nightly walks soothing,” Cas claims.

“Uh-huh,” Dean grunts dubiously. Cas is a sketchy character. Still, the guy did take care of him. He can’t be that bad. He’ll investigate this Cas person later. For now, he wants to know more about his condition. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Three days,” Cas replies.

 _Damn._ “I’m fine now, right? I can go home?”

Cas frowns. “You do not seem able to move.”

“Sure I can.” Dean attempts to sit up again, but he slumps down, the pain too much. “Um. Maybe not. Hey, can you take me home?”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“I . . . it is best if you rest.”

Dean remembers his colleagues, and Sammy. “Can I call the guys and let them know I’m all right, at least?”

“What guys?”

“You know. The police.—”

“ _No_ ,” Castiel says.

A chill runs through Dean’s body. “You keepin’ me prisoner?”

“No,” Castiel huffs, speaking as if Dean has offended him. “You may leave when you are sufficiently recovered. But I—I cannot allow you any outside contact.”

“Why not?”

Castiel draws his legs onto the chair and clasps his hands around them, hunching into himself. “I just—I cannot.” He will not meet Dean’s eyes.

“Can I call Sammy at least? Please?” Dean begs.

“Who is this Sammy? Your family?”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales.

“Very well. You may make one phone call to him. But after that, no more. No one must know where I reside.”

The hell? What’s up with this guy? He ain’t the monster . . . not a killer at all, in fact. Dean trusts his instincts; they have never led him astray. That’s what makes him an excellent cop. Something in him is magnetized by Cas, judges the stranger a good man, but his obvious caginess marks him as problematic.

Not to mention his odd sense of style. Dean examines his outfit. Black pants, white shirt, blue tie, tan trenchcoat. “Why’re you dressed like that?” Dean inquires.

Castiel scrunches his eyebrows. “Like what?”

“ _That_. Holy tax accountant.”

“There is nothing holy about me.”

Dean ignores the non sequitur and rolls his eyes. “I just meant your clothes are weird. Why’re you wearing a jacket indoors, anyway?”

“It’s a bit chilly. I do not have heating.” Castiel leans forward and presses a hand to Dean’s forehead. Dean shivers at the touch. “You have a fever,” Castiel observes.

As Cas removes his hand, Dean’s stomach growls. “I’m hungry,” Dean says.

“You must eat,” Castiel responds. _Thank you, Captain Obvious_. “Would you like to do so before or after you call . . . Sammy?”

“Eat, then call Sam,” Dean decides.

“All right.” Castiel leaves the room and returns a moment later with a bowl of what smells like cinnamon oatmeal. He settles back into the chair and pulls it up right next to the bed. He stirs the oatmeal, scoops up a spoonful, and urges, “Here, let me.”

Dean gapes at him. “Seriously? You’re gonna feed me?”

“Yes.”

“Gimme that.” Dean reaches for the bowl, but the action hurts so much he freakin’ _whimpers_ like a chick. Castiel gives him a smug look. “All right. Fine.” Dean opens his mouth to swallow the first bite Castiel offers him. “Mmm.” He must be damn hungry if _oatmeal_ tastes like the most delicious thing ever.

When the bowl is empty, Castiel retrieves Dean’s cell phone from a pocket and hands it to him. “I am going to keep this after your phone call,” he announces.

“What the fuck? You can’t do that!”

“I told you. No one must know where I live.”

“Uh . . . ” Whatever. He dials Sam and glares at Castiel. “Ya mind givin’ me a little privacy?”

“Of course.” Castiel glides out of the room.

“Hello?” Sam answers after three rings, breathless.

“Sammy?” Dean whines. _Ugh._

“Dean!” Sam exclaims. “Where are you? Are you all right?”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, a tear trickling down his cheek. God, it feels so good to hear Sam’s voice. “Dunno, Sammy. ’M okay, though.”

“We’ve been so friggin’ worried, Dean,” Sam sniffles. “What d’ya mean, you don’t know where you are?”

“I dunno. I’m in this guy’s house.—”

“Guy? What guy? Where? Lemme come getcha.”

“I have no idea where it is.” Dean hasn’t even looked outside a window yet. “Ya can’t come get me.”

“Just talk to whoever the guy is, and I’ll be there.”

“No. He won’t let me.”

“Whaddaya mean he won’t let you?”

“He doesn’t want anyone to know where he lives.”

“What the fuck? You’ve been _kidnapped_?”

“No, not exactly.—”

“You need to get the hell outta there, Dean!”

“I can’t. I can’t move.”

“You can’t move?!” Sam’s voice rises to hysterical heights. “What did that son of a bitch do to you?”

“It wasn’t him.”

“Huh?”

“It wasn’t him. It was the serial killer.—”

“You’re in the serial killer’s house?!”

“No. Sammy, shut up for a minute. Listen. He’s a good guy . . . I think. Just a little weird. Paranoid, maybe. I dunno what’s up with him. I just wanted to tell ya I’m all right. I’ll be there soon as I can.”

“Dean, this guy does not sound like a good—”

Dean’s hand tenses around the phone. “You trust me, Sammy?”

“You know I do.”

“Then don’t worry. Everything will be cool. I promise.”

“Dean—”

Suddenly, Castiel is inches before him, and how the _hell_ did he get there so fast without Dean noticing his approach? “I think you two have spoken long enough,” he states.

“Sam, I gotta go—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam pleads, exasperated.

“Bye, Sammy.” _Click._

Castiel extends a hand, palm upward. “Give me the phone,” he commands.

“Fine,” Dean sighs as he lets the phone slip from his fingers. He scrubs a hand over an eye absent-mindedly and feels grooves come into contact with his skin. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“You were hurt.—”

“I wanna see it.”

Castiel protests, “Dean, I don’t think—”

“Let me see it, goddammit!” Dean roars.

“Very well,” Castiel says, tone subdued. He exits the room and comes back with a handheld mirror, the phone presumably stowed away. He holds the mirror up for Dean.

A monster stares back at him.

Jagged cuts mar his cheeks, his right eye is in the middle of one long gash, and his lip is busted. Not all of them will fully heal. He’ll be scarred for life.

No more lady killer Dean Winchester.

“Goddammit,” Dean whispers, a sob escaping him.

Castiel kneels beside the bed, props his chin on Dean’s shoulder, and gazes into the mirror, bluer than blue meeting Dean’s own eyes in the glass. “I’m sorry,” he commiserates.

“Sorry doesn’t do shit,” Dean fumes.

“I understand,” Castiel whispers, velvety soft.

“The fuck you do!” Dean yells. “You don’t have to look this . . . grotesque . . . for the rest of your damn life!”

“You are not grotesque,” Castiel assures him.

Dean laughs mirthlessly. “Yeah, right.”

Castiel’s bluer than blue roves from the mirror, piercing Dean’s eyes. It’s like the guy can see into his soul. “It’s the truth.”

He sounds so damn earnest, but he’s lying.


	3. Catalyzed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm not sure if I can continue to update this quickly. My life will get busier next week. This chapter is entirely from Castiel's POV, but Dean's POV will be back in the next chapter.
> 
> Be prepared for sexual content. Also, there is some dubcon in Castiel's past as well as normal vampire-type violence.

Castiel’s heart throbs. Dean is wrong: Castiel is the grotesque one, not him. For grotesquerie resides on the inside, not the outside.

He sweeps the mirror away from Dean’s purview, hiding it behind his back. Dean should dwell on his appearance no longer. To Castiel, Dean is a handsome specimen both with and without the scars. His eyes are even more beautiful than rendered in the photograph. Dean’s soul shines through those hazel-green orbs. It is—he searches for the appropriate word— _righteous_. He is a righteous man. So much melancholy and pain is bottled up inside, though . . . it seems grossly unfair.

Castiel’s gaze roves to Dean’s uniform, which contains splatters of blood. Why didn’t he change the man’s clothes? He shouldn’t have let Dean lie in them for three days. He hadn’t wanted to impose, Castiel recalls. Dean had already experienced quite a shock; throwing new clothes on him would have only heightened the effect.

Perhaps he should ask Dean if he would like to change his clothes. The man has difficulty moving, however, which means that Castiel would have to complete the task. That could make Dean uncomfortable. Yes, Castiel saw most of Dean’s body already, when he attended to his wounds, but Dean does not know that. He has the distinct feeling that Dean would not approve, but no harm is done if he remains ignorant of the matter.

“Dean, your clothes are dirty,” Castiel points out after taking a step back from the bed. Dean directs his eyes downward, taking in his outfit.

“Yeah, I guess they are,” Dean affirms with a harsh laugh.

“Would you like some clean ones?”

“Uh, I dunno if you noticed this, hoss, but I ain’t exactly able to move.”

Why does Dean comment on the obvious? “Yes, I do realize, Dean. But I . . . hmm.” Castiel feels his cheeks redden, and Dean gives him a curious look. “I could . . . that is, if you don’t mind, I could, um.” Dean raises his eyebrows, expression clueless. “I could change your clothes for you.”

“Get out!” Dean yells.

“You wish for me to leave the room?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s just an expression, Cas. But as for your proposition . . . ” Dean blushes. “Hell no.”

“I understand,” Cas acknowledges softly. He picks up the spoon and empty bowl. “You should get more rest,” he urges before heading for the doorway.

“Cas?” Dean ventures.

Castiel spins around. “Yes, Dean?”

“Um . . . well, you know. They do smell, and they’re sticky. God, I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this . . . but if ya have somethin’ that fits, yeah, I’d like to wear it.”

Castiel flashes what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “Yes, I think I have something comfortable. I’ll be back.”

Castiel tosses the dishes in the sink then returns to the bedroom and flings open the closet. He thumbs through the hangers and extracts a pair of black sweatpants and an olive green button-up shirt. They are too big for him, so they should fit Dean. “Will these do?” he inquires as he holds them up.

Dean snorts. “Who hangs up their sweatpants?”

“I do.”

“Rhetorical question, Cas. Damn, how do you even function in society?”

“I apologize. I lead a solitary life, and my people skills are rusty.” In fact, Castiel has always been awkward, and others have often derided him for it. It appears Dean will behave in the same fashion.

For some reason, the thought evokes disappointment.

“Nah, don’t apologize,” Dean responds. “You saved my life. That counts for somethin’, right?”

“I should hope so.”

Dean sighs. “All right. Let’s get this shit over with.”

Castiel tiptoes toward Dean and drops the clothes at the foot of the bed. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.”

“All right.” Castiel perches on the end of the bed and steels himself. He knows he will be . . . tempted. He is well-aware of his sexual attraction to Dean, and appetite . . . well, for one such as himself, it is almost impossible to resist. Gluttony—that is the mark of his kind.

He snaps open the top button of Dean’s shirt, their eyes inches apart. He can feel Dean’s solid abs underneath the fabric, and he tries to steady his fingers, which are already twitching with hunger. Castiel hopes Dean doesn’t notice—or if he does, he doesn’t realize the significance of the tremor. The next button, and the next, until they are all undone. “Ready?” Castiel whispers.

“Go for it,” Dean mutters.

He cups the back of Dean’s head and pries him up from the mattress before peeling off the shirt. He pulls the other shirt onto Dean, wincing each time Dean flinches at the material’s contact with his skin. After buttoning up the shirt, Castiel cannot prevent himself from massaging Dean’s back before letting it sink onto the mattress. He’s soothing Dean’s pain, he tells himself, but he knows it’s just an excuse to touch Dean. Dean’s breath hitches as Castiel kneads his back, the sound perceptible to Castiel’s sharpened hearing. As Dean reclines on the bed, Castiel’s eyes meet his, and they are . . . solid black camouflages most of the hazel-green.

Most likely, Dean himself is unaware of his body’s tics.

Bodies—human and vampire—are bundles of instinct, their small motions—the flutter of an eyelid, the scratching of an itch, the flick of a tongue on the lips, and so much more, involuntary.

Castiel’s blood thrums, and he bites his lip hard in an attempt to distract himself.

He takes a deep breath. _Just get this over with._

He draws down Dean’s pants, palms brushing over Dean’s thighs as he does so. Castiel observes, fascinated, as Dean’s erection tents his boxers.

He glances up at Dean, whose countenance is red . . . blood red. Dean avoids Castiel’s gaze, turning his head to the side, oh so ignorant of the lure of his neck, the pulsing vein.

Castiel plants his hands on both sides of Dean. Dean’s bulge . . . it is practically an invitation. He could take it.

 _Take it take it take it_ , the unholiness inside him screams.

Sweat beads on his brow, and Castiel closes his eyes, willing himself to resist. _Resist resist resist_. He will _not_ take advantage of Dean in this state. No, that would make him as depraved as Alastair.

He yanks the sweatpants over Dean’s legs and leaps off the bed.

“I . . . um.” He retrieves the uniform from the floor. “I will wash these.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks,” Dean mumbles.

“I will leave you alone to rest. Unless there is anything else you need?”

“No, ’m good, Cas. G’night. Is it night?”

“Yes, Dean. Good night.”

Castiel pitches the uniform into the washer and retires to the basement, an eight by eight enclosure in which he sometimes interrogates—and feeds on—villains.

A long table leans against the far wall, and Castiel stretches himself out on it. He needs release.

He shoves his pants and boxers to his knees and grips his penis, groaning as the engorged member touches his fingers.

Up, down, up, down, he moves his thumb.

His eyes shut of their own accord, and he imagines Dean, his eyes, his hands, caressing the scar on his cheekbone, the one covering his eye . . .

Dean stroking him.

He squeezes his phallus, jerking himself off, pretending he is fucking Dean, and Dean is so _goddamn tight_ , so _delicious_.

And _yes_ , he burrows into Dean, so deep Castiel is under Dean’s skin, and heat envelops Castiel, delightful, decadent heat, and Castiel is a ball of carnal sensation.

With a moan, he arches his back as he comes all over the table, the liquid spurting everywhere.

He collapses against the table, panting heavily.

He must not allow himself to do that again. Not with Dean on his mind.

And never _ever_ should he initiate anything with Dean.

That would be too dangerous.

xxxxxxxxxx

Hours later, after washing and drying Dean’s uniform, Castiel settles onto the couch and readies himself for sleep.

Had it been a mistake to permit Dean to phone Sam? Sam is Dean’s family; he must be one of the two men in Dean’s pictures.

Whoever he is, Dean loves him very much. He’d overhead Dean’s conversation while lingering in the hallway, and there had been no mistaking the affection in his voice.

 _Family_. The thought triggers memories of his former life, and of how he was damned.

**France, 1787**

Castiel Le Ange had been born to Baron and Baroness Le Ange, the youngest of five children. As the eldest son, Raphael stood to inherit all, including the title of “Baron,” and Rachel and Hester required dowries. Zachariah and Naomi Le Ange had set aside enough money for another son, Uriel, but they did not have sufficient funds to do the same for Castiel. Thus, Castiel was destined for the priesthood.

His parents and siblings treated him with derision. At a young age, he was sent away to seminary, and afterward he matriculated at the Sorbonne.

Shortly after receiving his diploma, Castiel returned to his family’s estate in the Languedoc, having nowhere else to go during the months before his ordination would take place.

To his surprise, Uriel invited Castiel to spend time with him. They attended events together, and Castiel met Uriel’s libertine friends, whom Castiel did not much care for.

But he was transfixed by Anna and Michael Milton.

The Miltons hailed from England. Michael was an artist while his wife wrote philosophical tracts, especially concerning herself with women’s rights. Her arguments made a good deal of sense, and Castiel supported her cause. For the time being, they were staying at the Le Ange compound.

One night, the Miltons requested that Castiel and Uriel join them for a drink in their bedchamber. Castiel thought the idea improper, but the other three persuaded him into acquiescing.

Seated at a small table near the foot of the bed, they drank copious glasses of wine, and Castiel was lulled into a comfortable mood. Uriel left shortly before one in the morning. Castiel staggered to his feet, planning to take his leave as well, but each of the Miltons placed a hand on his shoulder and urged him to stay as they nudged him back into his chair. He hadn’t the strength to resist, and his lips formed a sloppy smile as he stretched out his legs.

Anna flourished a fresh bottle of wine. “What do you say to another round?” she asked.

“I--I think I’ve had en—enough,” Castiel stammered.

“You can never have enough,” Anna opined as she filled up Castiel’s goblet once again. Shrugging, he picked up the chalice and pressed it to his lips. All too soon, he’d drained the glass. “You know,” Anna continued, rubbing a hand over his forearm, evoking goosebumps, “Michael and I like you very much. Very, very much.”

Michael stroked Castiel’s other arm and added, “We sure do.”

Castiel giggled. “What is this?” The room was spinning.

“Much better than Uriel,” Michael declared.

“Uriel is a little person,” Anna spat. “But you, Castiel . . . you are different. You deserve greatness.”

“Like us,” Michael put in.

“What?” Castiel breathed.

His body lurched as the couple pulled him to his feet, maneuvered him to the bed, and pinned him down. Splotches marred his vision, and the room never ceased tumbling around him. Only the two figures in front of him remained clear, Anna’s red hair glowing with an ethereal beauty. They climbed onto the bed on either side of him, and Anna crushed her lips against his, jamming a tongue into his mouth.

She tasted heavenly.

“Wha--?” he began, but Anna retreated, and then Michael’s lips were on his.

He tasted wonderful as well.

“What was that?” Castiel murmured when Michael released him.

“Poor dear,” Anna sighed. “You’ve never been kissed, have you?”

Michael trailed a finger down the center of his chest, and Castiel shivered. “Prepare yourself for an unforgettable experience.”

The pair tore off his clothes, and Castiel yelped. “Please,” Castiel gasped. “This is sin.”

“There is pleasure in sin,” Anna replied.

Michael wrapped a hand around Castiel’s member. Castiel had never felt such a . . . _divine_ sensation, and he whimpered. “Methinks you like it,” Michael said.

 _No_. Castiel would take orders soon, and this would ruin him.

“He does,” Anna chuckled. “And I think you’ll enjoy this even more.” She enclosed her lips around his penis, and he couldn’t prevent himself from emitting a wanton moan.

The rest of the night proceeded in fragments. The Miltons disrobed, three sets of limbs tangled together, and Castiel drowned in their flesh.

After his body had been wrung out, he lay sprawled out on the bed.

Something nicked his neck.

His eyes moved to the right, where Anna had bitten into him. Teeth dragged against the other side, and Castiel’s gaze shifted to Michael.

Their teeth were rooted in his skin, and he discerned the _slurp_ of them lapping up blood.

His blood.

“What . . . are you . . . doing?” Castiel slurred.

Anna placed an index finger on his lips. “Shh. Just relax,” she commanded.

“Yes. Relax,” Michael echoed.

An intoxicating lassitude overtook him, and he never wanted the Miltons to stop.

“Tastes good, doesn’t he?” Michael rumbled.

“Indeed,” Anna answered.

Castiel lost consciousness.

When he awoke, he was alone. Someone had dressed him. An alien hunger coursed through him, and his body shook.

Anna and Michael burst in, dragging a gagged village girl between them.

Castiel bounded off the bed and sank his teeth into her neck. The blood dribbling across her skin . . . delectable. He guzzled it, and her empty vessel clattered to the ground, exsanguinated.

What had just happened?

What had he _done_?

Michael’s grin gleamed wickedly. “My, my, but I think he’s still hungry.”

“Astonishing,” Anna marveled. “He is voracious.” She beamed at her husband. “I knew we made the right choice.”

Castiel clenched his hands into fists, attempting to still the tremors. He licked the blood off his lips, and he wanted _more_. But that poor girl . . . she was probably around sixteen. And he’d _devoured_ her. Castiel lifted his eyes from the corpse up to the Miltons. “What have you done to me?” he screeched.

They circled him as they crept closer. “We have given you a gift,” Anna intoned.

“Eternal youth,” said Michael.

“Immortality.”

“Strength.”

“Virility.”

Anna’s eyes met his, and he felt an irresistible impulse . . . he thrust her against the wall and assaulted her mouth with his own.

Anna gently pushed him away and laughed. “Not now, pet.” She threaded a hand through his hair to soften the sting of rejection. “We must be gone.”

“Once we have put sufficient distance between us and this place, we can feast,” said Michael.

“No,” Castiel said, his voice hoarse.

“What?”

“I said _no_. I am not going with you.”

“Suit yourself,” Anna chimed in. “But what will everyone say when they see what you have done?” She gestured toward the girl he’d drained.

Tears dripped down Castiel’s cheeks. “Why did you do this to me?” he whispered.

“Greatness, honey. Because you deserve greatness.”

Michael cracked his knuckles. “Our kind are above it all, Castiel. The law. Morality. Those are for the insignificant.”

Castiel moved to Paris with the Miltons. Life with them was one vast orgy, of feeding as well as other pursuits. Despite all their talk of Castiel’s “greatness,” they wielded total control over him. If they were displeased with him, he endured a beating. They toyed with their victims, which Castiel objected to. But they threatened to torture him if he didn’t participate. Even though he despised his new form, the instinct for self-preservation won every time. Worst of all, he _enjoyed_ their activities. Immensely.

Over the next six years, France grew chaotic, and the masses rose up. Castiel sympathized with them, but eventually the revolution took matters too far. Its leaders used the guillotine to perpetrate mass executions. When he learned of the king and queen’s death, Castiel knew he must flee the country. Anyone with an ounce of noble blood was a target. He planned his escape, and luck was in his corner, for he somehow managed to slip away from the Miltons. And so at twenty-eight, he boarded a ship for the New World and set up residence in New Orleans. He was finally free of the Miltons, but not of his bloodlust. He lamented his need for human blood, hating himself every time he claimed another victim.

But then he met Benny Lafitte, who showed him another way—

“Cas!” Dean shouts, ripping him out of his reverie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In many early Gothic novels, including those about vampires, authors use the genre to explore sexual urges generally considered taboo. That's why I decided to depict Castiel as having a sizable sexual appetite. Besides, sexuality still plays a major part in modern vampire stories.
> 
> I researched vampire lore and found several different traditions about how to turn people. In this verse, in order to be turned, someone has to drink a vampire's blood, and a vampire has to drink that person's blood.
> 
> New Orleans did not belong to France during the French Revolution. It belonged to Spain, but I figured Castiel could still go there. Many French people would still live in the area, so he could speak his native tongue. Fun fact: most of the architecture in the French Quarter is Spanish.
> 
> We'll be getting back to the main plotline in the next chapter . . . I hope the diversion into Castiel's past was all right and that you enjoyed this chapter. Some of this content is out of my (writing) comfort zone, so I hope it's decent. I'd love to know your thoughts about it! To those of you who have left kudos, bookmarked, commented, and/or subscribed, thanks! Interest means a lot! As ever, thanks for reading!


	4. Primordial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a little sexual content toward the end. I guess it could be considered a bit dubcon, but it's not, really. (At least, not the way it plays out in my head.)
> 
> Thanks to those of you who've commented, bookmarked, subscribed, and left kudos! It always makes me happy when someone is interested in what I'm writing (and it amazes me a little, too).
> 
> As always, your thoughts are welcome! Thanks for reading!

After Cas exits the room, Dean falls into a light sleep. He wakes up a couple of hours later, and it’s excruciating because, _damn_ , he needs to take a piss.

But he can’t move without fire igniting in his veins.

 _Dammit_.

Wet the bed like some preschooler? No fuckin’ thank you. Besides, then he’d have to lay in that shit.

Okay, no choice but to try to go to the bathroom. If he can figure out where the hell it is. He’ll be careful, swing his legs down to the floor real slow . . .

Ow, fuck! No, he can’t do this alone.

So, what, ask for the weirdo’s help? Yeah, getting Cas to change his clothes had been bad enough. His body had betrayed him, growing hard at Cas’s touch, and he couldn’t look the man in the eye with the unmistakable evidence right there in his face. Before averting his gaze, Dean had seen the guy’s disdain for him, the coldness in those blue eyes . . . Cas probably thought he was some eternally horny sexpot.

But why should he care what Cas thinks of him, anyway? The guy is a stranger, and his presence in the industrial district on the same night as the serial killer is suspicious. He even seems to know who the bastard might be; Cas had referred to him as “Al” before changing tack. Is he an accomplice?

But if he is an accomplice, why would he save Dean?

None of it makes any damn sense. But he does know one thing: for the moment, he is at Cas’s mercy. He owes Cas his life, and for whatever friggin’ reason, the man seems intent on helping Dean heal.

Oh, fuck it. Unless he wants to take a piss all over the bed, he has to swallow his pride and ask for Cas’s assistance.

“Cas!” he hollers. After waiting a few minutes and receiving no answer, he yells Cas’s name again.

Footsteps flit through the hallway, and Cas steps over the threshold into the room. “Yes, Dean?” he asks, and for some reason Dean notices how exhausted he appears. “Are you all right?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Dean answers. Cas gives him a questioning look, and Dean clears his throat. “But I gotta pee.” He’s surprised Cas hears him because he can barely hear himself.

“You have to . . . _oh_.”

Dean’s face heats up. “Yeah.”

“I can escort you to the restroom . . . if that is okay with you?” Dean nods. Castiel maneuvers Dean until his feet touch the floor then sits on the bed, his side flush against Dean’s. Dean implores his dick to please behave. Cas slips an arm around Dean’s shoulders, resting his palm on the left one as he gently explains, “I am going to place your arm around me. I think it will make our expedition to the bathroom proceed much more smoothly. Are you all right with that?”

“Uh huh,” Dean exhales.

Cas presses his free hand to Dean’s, the long, elegant fingers slotting themselves through Dean’s digits. For such a scrawny guy, his grip is unexpectedly firm. He drags Dean’s arm around his neck and drops Dean’s hand, where it falls against the trenchcoat. “I am going to stand up,” Cas announces. “Hold on.” Dean nods, and Castiel yanks Dean up with him. Dean howls at the pain from the sudden movement and grips Cas’s shoulder tightly as he wobbles on his feet. “Are you all right?” Castiel inquires.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes even though he’s not quite certain if that’s the truth.

“I will try to move slowly,” Cas declares. “If it starts to hurt, let me know. We will take a break.”

“’Kay.”

They hobble down the hallway, their progress an imitation of the world’s lamest three-legged race. Gasps of pain escape him from time to time, but he always refuses to stop when Cas offers. Freakin’ finally, they arrive at the bathroom, and damn if that few feet isn’t the longest walk of Dean’s life.

Dean releases Cas’s shoulder and leans against the doorframe. “I’ll take it from here,” he says.

“Are you sure?”

“I can handle it.” No way is he lettin’ Cas pull down his pants again. Before Cas can object, he turns to the bathroom, keeping a hand on the wall as he hops toward the toilet.

“I suppose I will just wait here, then,” Cas mutters behind him.

“No peekin’,” Dean warns. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and almost has a panic attack. _Just breathe_ , he tells himself. When he reaches the toilet, he struggles to lift up the seat. Why the hell do people need to close it? That just makes shit more complicated. He lowers his pants and boxers, clenching his teeth to prevent himself from crying out. The last thing he wants is for Cas to rush in here. He continues to support himself with a hand on the wall. He aims, and _yes_ —

That feels so fuckin’ good. Nothin’ like a long piss.

When he is finished, he pulls his boxers back up then grabs for his pants. He overbalances, and he loses contact with the wall. Before he knows it, he crashes to the ground, his head pounding as it hits the frigid white floor.

“Dean!” Cas yells.

“’M all right,” Dean groans.

The patter of footsteps, and Cas’s black business shoes enter Dean’s line of vision. He crouches and extends a hand to Dean. “Here. Let me help you up.”

Dean accepts Cas’s hand, and once he’s regained his footing he mutters, “So freakin’ embarrassing.”

Castiel pulls the sweatpants over the boxers and answers, “No, Dean. You are doing remarkably well.” Dean snorts.

Cas assists him in returning to the bedroom. He helps Dean lie down on the bed, covers him with the blankets, and smooths his hair. The touch of that deft hand . . . Dean wishes he could melt into it. “Please call me if you require anything else,” Cas urges.

“’Kay.”

“Anything at all,” Cas emphasizes.

Dean hums in agreement and closes his eyes, sinking into dreams about crystal blue orbs and the warmth something primordial within himself desires.

xxxxxxxxxxx

“Good morning, this is Cassie Robinson for Channel Four News. In today’s top story, we are reminded that a serial killer is still at large. At 4:24 a.m., the body of Ronald Reznick, a teller at a local Bank of America branch, was discovered in a dumpster beside a McDonald’s. Police tell us that his body was mutilated and drained of blood, just like all the others. This makes Victim Number Six.

“The hunt for Officer Dean Winchester, who disappeared while working on this gruesome case, continues. Police have still found no trace of him, but there has been a new development. We go to Becky Rosen, who is live on location, for more about this story.”

Becky flashes that perky smile which irks Castiel. “Good morning, Cassie.” A tall man with lanky brown hair stands next to her in front of a red-brick house. Castiel has seen this person before.—“I am here with Sam Winchester, who claims that he was contacted by Dean.” She turns to Sam and shoves the microphone at him. To Castiel’s amusement, he looks just as annoyed by Becky as he feels. “What can you tell us, Sam?”

Sam coughs and offers a grim smile. “Yeah. Dean—he called me last night. He said he’s been staying with somebody . . . I don’t know who, though.” Sam looks directly into the camera with tear-filled eyes. “I want to say this to whoever has him. Please. Please don’t hurt him. I just . . . I want my brother back . . . he’s all I’ve got left. Just bring him home. That’s all. I won’t even report you.—”

“Mr. Winchester!” Becky exclaims, sounding scandalized. Perhaps she disapproves of Sam’s appeal, but he seems sincere. Castiel’s eyes water at the sheer emotion in Sam’s voice. He wants to reunite Sam and Dean more than anything. But he cannot. Not yet.

But he will prioritize rehabilitating Dean.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel has delayed long enough. He’s made excuses to himself, excuses that Dean might need him. But the truth is, he’s afraid.

He must resume his pursuit of Alastair. Ideally, he should smite Alastair before Dean returns home. Because once Dean leaves, he will speak with his colleagues on the police force. He knows what Alastair looks like, and once law enforcement personnel know, they will become bolder. They will notify the public, too. Perhaps the latter would not be so terrible, Castiel muses. If people can recognize him, then they can avoid Alastair.

Unless Alastair wants to claim them as victims. Most vampires could not evade Alastair, let alone human beings.

Still, a description of Alastair could help protect the general populace. The problem arises when one considers the police . . . They will not hesitate to confront Alastair if they spot him, and Alastair will slaughter them. Or worse, kidnap them and keep them alive for days as he drains them, just as he did with the individuals in the warehouse.

Castiel suspects that Alastair has claimed at least three times more victims than have been found so far. No one has discovered the bodies of those Castiel saw in the warehouse the night he stumbled upon Dean.

As long as Alastair continues to prowl about town, no one is safe. He must be stopped.

Castiel is the only one capable of rising to the challenge.

In a fight, Alastair would beat him, but he would fare better than a human, for he possesses more strength and stamina. He is also more perceptive.

If there is no other way, Castiel is willing to sacrifice himself. Anything to bring down the worst of his kind.

In order to defeat Alastair, Castiel must first search for his new lair. Doubtless it is no longer located in the warehouse district. It had been a smart choice, Castiel acknowledges. Hardly anyone ventures into that part of town, which is mostly abandoned, and Alastair’s nest had had countless buildings at its disposal. The new site would be smaller.

Castiel waits until nighttime to drive to the industrial quarter, where he will pick up his investigation. He hypothesizes that Alastair did not leave any clues regarding the move, but one should always inspect matters before drawing hasty conclusions.

The warehouse Castiel visited the other night has been cordoned off by the police, so he makes sure to park several blocks away. He does not know if any law enforcement officers are there now, but he does not want to risk running into them. It would arouse suspicion, maybe even prompt them to believe that _Castiel_ is the serial killer, which would only serve to empower Alastair. Castiel can outsmart the police, but even so, their antics would interfere with Castiel’s hunt for Alastair.

After switching off his car, Castiel jogs toward the warehouse that used to be Alastair’s home base. This wooden edifice is the largest in the vicinity, three stories tall. Castiel must examine every inch of the place.

He gags at the humidity when he enters. The dampness feels slimy against his skin. His footsteps echo as he strides across the large open space. He will start with the first floor, working his way from the back to the front. He surveys each strip of ground and the walls, and toward the middle, he detects a puddle. He traipses toward it to gain a closer look and squats down, dipping a finger in the liquid. Blood. Before he has time to think about his action, he licks it off his finger. Human. It has been so long since he has allowed himself the indulgence of human blood, and his body screams with _need_. No, he tells himself, he is not an animal. He will not bend down and lap at the blood as a cat would do with milk. No. _No_. Something drips onto his head from the ceiling, and he swipes a hand through his hair. More blood, which he sucks off the tip of his finger.

His body convulses with it, the need. Soon the craving consumes him, and he is nothing but a ball of hunger.

He dunks his face into the red pool, engorging himself. All that exists is _this_ , the ambrosia.

When he has devoured the substance, he staggers to his feet, euphoric. He turns his head to the side.

And finds a sword grazing his neck.

“Lilith,” Castiel mumbles. He recognizes the blonde as one of Alastair’s brood.

“Castiel,” she smirks, pressing the sword into his skin. He takes a step back, and his head thumps against the wall.

“You know me,” Castiel murmurs.

Her cruel smile widens. “Yes. Alastair has told us all about you.”

“Alastair?” He had not realized Alastair was aware of his existence.

“Yes. You are not as clever as you think, Castiel. Alastair knows you have been following him.”

“He does?”

“Oh, yes.” Her teeth glisten in a predatory manner. “You stole his meal from him. Our meal.”

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

She slaps him. “Don’t lie to me! _Officer Dean Winchester_ —you took him. Was he as delicious as he looked?”

“I would not know.”

She studies him, and he squirms under her steely gaze. “Oh, yes. I forgot. You’re a traitor to your kind. You pretend you are above everything, protecting your precious wittle humans. But it’s a sham.” She gestures at the floor. “You’re greedy for it just like the rest of us.”

“Maybe, but at least I have self-control,” Castiel mutters.

She snorts. “What I just saw was definitely not self-control.”

If he keeps her talking, perhaps he can duck under the sword. How can he continue the conversation? “Do you like it?” he asks.

“Like what?”

He doesn’t know. “Being under Alastair’s thumb.”

She bristles at the assertion. “I am _not_ under Alastair’s thumb.”

“Is that so? Then why are you doing his bidding? Why do you take orders from him?”

She grits her teeth, and good, she is distracted by anger. Castiel shoves her away, and she loses her balance, swaying on her feet. He takes the opportunity to snatch the sword from her then shunts her against the wall. She hisses as he holds the sword to her throat and pins a wrist against the wall with an iron grip.

He should kill her. It would remove a threat to the town, even if it isn’t the main one.

But he requires information first.

He puts more pressure on the sword, and she struggles not to cry out. “Tell me where Alastair is,” he commands.

She sneers. “You wish.”

He bears down on her with the sword, drawing blood. “You will tell me.”

“Or what?” She is attempting to maintain her bravado, but Castiel notes the twinge of fear in her eyes.

“Or you lose your head.”

“You wouldn’t,” she gasps.

“I would.”

“But you’re one of us.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Fuck you!” she spits. Castiel pushes deeper into her neck, and blood dribbles down onto her white blouse. “Okay, okay,” she sighs. “Downtown.”

“Where downtown?”

“Like I would tell you.”

“Would you prefer to lose your head?”

She begins to cry, but Castiel has no sympathy for her. “Alastair will punish me.”

“And I will kill you.”

“The old building,” she eventually answers.

“What old building?”

“It used to be an ice cream parlor.”

So Alastair has chosen another area of town people seldom visit. A tiny strip on the edge of downtown, where an ice cream shop, diner, and convenience store formerly stood.

“Now let me go,” Lilith demands.

Instead, Castiel lifts his arm and swings the sword, severing her head from her body in one clean swoop.

“I lied,” Castiel announces to the empty room. He wipes the human blood from his face and licks it off his hands.

xxxxxxxxxx

Over the next few days, Dean stays in bed. He becomes bored as fuck just sitting there. The only respite comes when Castiel helps him traverse the small distance to the bathroom. Castiel also brings him meals on a regular basis and even loans him books. He offers to let Dean borrow some CDs and his stereo, but it turns out that Cas doesn’t own any good music, just a bunch of classical shit.

“I’ve gotta teach ya ’bout the good stuff,” Dean comments.

“This _is_ good music, Dean,” Castiel objects.

“According to who?” Castiel doesn’t answer him, so Dean mentions, “Zeppelin. AC/DC. That’s what it’s about.”

“Who?”

“God, Cas, where’d you grow up, under a rock? You’ve got a lotta learnin’ to do. I’ll show ya once I’m better.”

A strained silence enters the room. Castiel stares at him, a troubled expression on his face. Dean can’t believe he’s contemplating spending more time with Cas after his recovery. This stranger . . . friend? Is he a friend?

He still can’t puzzle Cas out. What had he been doing in the warehouse on the same night as the serial killer? If he’s not working with the killer, and he’s not a cop, then what? He’s some sort of vigilante? _Don’t be absurd_.

Perhaps he shouldn’t question his luck. Don’t look a gift horse in a mouth and all that.

His burgeoning attraction to Cas, though—

“If you wish,” Castiel responds, tearing Dean out of his thoughts. Castiel offers him a wan smile and strolls away.

Sometimes, he can’t stop himself from imagining what Cas would look like without his shirt, his pants, his body stark naked . . . he tells himself it’s merely because he’s bored, but the fantasies become more intense as time passes.

The guy has a slight figure, but would his abs be well-defined? From their trips to the bathroom, Dean knows Castiel is stronger than he looks. Would the skin be as pale as it is on the visible parts of his body? How much hair does he have? Which spots are the most sensitive? Would the skin feel smooth under his rough palms?

How would it feel to firmly grip his shoulders? Cas seems so considerate. Would that charming solicitousness be present in bed? Would his thighs be toned? Is his hair as soft as it looks? How would Cas respond if he tugged on it while they fucked? Would those uncanny blue eyes look directly into Dean’s when he came? Would those eyes be debauched, ecstatic? He acts so proper . . . what would he be like once he came undone? How would those eyes look if they sparkled with fondness?

Dammit. Dean’s brain needs to shut up right the fuck now. He doesn’t know jackshit about the man, and here he is envisioning sex with him. There is the possibility, though Dean doubts it, that Cas aids and abets the serial killer. And if not, well, Dean still knows next to nothing about the guy. He shouldn’t permit his thoughts to wander in such an intimate direction.

But Cas did save his life.

And Cas is nursing him back to health.

Even if he’s peculiar, he’s a good person.

One day, Dean lets things go too far. He finds that he can stretch his good arm without experiencing excruciating pain. A pair of blue eyes lingers in his brain; then he begins thinking about skin on skin . . . and he’s horny as fuck.

He could rub one out.

Yeah. Yeah, he would. He insinuates a hand underneath his sweatpants and traces the slit, and _ow_. Okay, so his arms are good, but his back and stomach still hurt like hell.

“Dean, are you all right?” Cas inquires, and his voice is getting closer. _Fuck no_. “I heard you—” He abruptly goes quiet when he sees Dean there with his hand on his dick.

“Go away, Cas,” Dean snaps.

“But I—”

“I said go away!” Cas doesn’t budge, and his gaze is so intense. Damn, but that goes straight to his cock. “Can’t I get some fuckin’ privacy? A guy has needs, y’know.”

Cas chews his lip, and how is that so freakin’ adorable? “You could further injure yourself,” he points out.

“That’s a risk I’m willin’ to take.”

Cas takes a step forward. “I could help,” he offers, his tone clinically detached.

God, that is so not normal. “Do y’know how friggin’ weird that would be?”

Castiel kneels at his side and turns earnest eyes to him. “I don’t mind.”

“Um—”

“Let me.” Cas clasps a hand around Dean’s dick and _fuck_ , it feels damn good.  He pumps up and down, adding his other hand, and for such a stuffy guy, he’s surprisingly good at this. “How’s that?” he asks in that sexy gravelly voice. Dean doesn’t have the ability to speak at the moment, so he just moans as Cas continues his ministrations. He comes all too soon with a loud groan, most of the spunk hitting Castiel’s hands. Castiel stands up and dries his hands with a nearby towel.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Dean.

In fact, they never discuss the incident at all.


	5. Scarred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a graphic depiction of torture from Castiel's past, in the form of a nightmare.
> 
> As ever, thanks to those of you who've subscribed, commented, bookmarked, and left kudos!

After viewing the late edition of the morning news, Castiel bounds off the couch and grabs a jar from the refrigerator. Alastair had claimed another victim, and Dean—well, discussion of him had faded.

Castiel sips the blood and lets his mind wander into blankness. He hears footsteps, and he spins around and finds himself facing—

Dean. Up and mobile.

“Heya, Cas!” Dean greets him.

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel replies.

“Don’t look so astonished,” Dean chortles.

“You can walk.”

“Freakin’ finally!”

“Does it hurt?”

Dean grimaces. “A little. But ’m fine.”

Castiel smiles. “I am glad.”

Dean pats the sling on his arm and winces. “D’ya know how much longer I’m gonna hafta wear this thing?”

Castiel shrugs. “Four weeks?”

“Damn!”

“You’ll heal,” Castiel assures him.

Dean’s eyes skim down to the glass in Castiel’s hand. “What’s that? Looks like blood.”

Is that a joke? It must be. Castiel laughs uneasily. “No. Cranberry juice.”

“Gross. Got anythin’ else to drink?” Dean ventures toward the refrigerator and frowns. “Why’s there a lock on it?”

“Um.” Castiel berates himself for not formulating a cover story. There had been plenty of time to do so, even if he has been focused on scoping out Alastair’s nest. “Privacy.”

Dean snorts. “You keep private junk in your fridge?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever. Weirdo.” Castiel inwardly sighs in relief; he had been afraid Dean would interrogate him more about the lock.

“I can make you breakfast,” Castiel offers. “How do eggs and bacon sound?”

“Fuckin’ A.”

Castiel gestures to the living room. “You can watch television while you wait.” _Please go watch television. You must leave the room so you do not see the contents of the refrigerator._

“All right.” Dean shuffles into the living room, and the sound of the television wafts into the kitchen. Castiel hastily extracts a sufficient amount of eggs and bacon from the refrigerator and digs around in the cabinets until he finds a pan and a spatula. He sprays the pan with Pam and dumps servings of eggs and bacon into it.

“Seriously, Cas? No cable?” Dean yells from the living room.

“I apologize,” Castiel shouts back while maintaining a vigilant eye on the food. “I do not watch much television, so cable is an unnecessary expense.”

“But there’s nothing on these damn channels!” Castiel rolls his eyes fondly. Dean must be doing well enough if he has sufficient energy to gripe about the television’s offerings. “Somethin’ smells good,” Dean adds a couple of minutes later.

When Castiel finishes with the eggs and bacon, he calls Dean into the kitchen. “Bring it in here, would ya?” Dean responds.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Bossy, bossy,” Castiel says, a lilting note of humor in his voice. He does not think he has heard himself speak in such a tone since before . . . since before he was turned. He carries the plate of food into the living room and places it on the coffee table. Castiel grins when he notices Dean staring raptly at the television. “I see you have found something to watch.”

“Shuddup, Cas,” Dean snaps. “I wanna see if she wins the car.” Castiel recognizes the program: _The Price is Right_ , with Drew Carey. The middle-aged woman jumps up and down and screams, which indicates to Castiel that she did indeed win the car.

Sometimes Castiel finds Drew Carey’s humor a little too mean-spirited. “I prefer Bob Barker,” he murmurs.

“Dude, everyone does,” Dean replies. “But Drew ain’t so bad.”

“If you say so.”

A commercial break interrupts the program, and Dean finally glances at the plate. “This looks awesome, Cas.” Castiel cannot help but feel pride at the compliment. “What about somethin’ to drink?”

“What would you like?”

“Got any orange juice?”

“Yes.” Castiel returns to the kitchen and pours Dean a glass of orange juice, hoping Dean will not walk into the room when he opens and closes the refrigerator. At least he’d had the presence of mind to stock up on blood so he would not need to hunt with Dean now on his feet.

“Here,” Castiel says as he passes the orange juice to Dean.

“Thanks.” Dean beams at him, and Castiel feels a strange warmth in his chest. “You’re not gonna eat anythin’?”

“No. I already had my breakfast.” Castiel has no need to eat, but Dean should not know that. Perhaps he will have to force himself to consume a meal, though, to prevent Dean from growing suspicious.

“Stickin’ with your cranberry juice for now, huh?”

“Yes.” Castiel gulps down the blood and withdraws to the kitchen to wash the jar before Dean can look too closely at its contents. When Castiel rejoins Dean on the couch, Dean looks excited.

“She just got a dollar on the wheel!” Dean exclaims.

It is the same woman who won a car earlier. “She must be having a lucky day,” Castiel observes. Dean shushes him, for the other contestants are now spinning the wheel. Castiel remains silent as Dean eats and enthuses over the show. Finally, Drew Carey urges everyone to have their pets spayed or neutered, and Dean groans when _The Young and the Restless_ starts playing. He turns to Castiel and asks, “What’re you smilin’ ’bout?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“I am happy that you are getting better. I can take you home soon.” Why does the thought make Castiel wistful?

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. Why does he sound so depressed?

xxxxxxxxxxx

Dean is not sure he wants to go back.

What will people say when they see his face? He doesn’t want to witness their horror—or worse, their pity.

He may know next to nothing about Cas, but at least Cas doesn’t treat him like he’s a monster or make him feel pathetic for how fuckin’ ugly his face is.

So every time Cas offers to drive him into town, Dean demurs. He tells Cas that he just needs a few more days, that he should be fully recuperated before he resumes normal life.

Dean doubts he will ever be ready, yet he cannot depend on Cas’s charity forever.

He still doesn’t understand the guy, and the questions pile up daily. Why does the basement door have a lock? What’s down there? _Hell_ , what’s more baffling is why the fuck anyone would put a lock on their fridge. What, is he secretly Jeffrey Dahmer?

Unlikely, but you never know who’s batshit.

But Dean trusts himself, and his instincts say the dude is cool if a little eccentric. Hot, too, but that’s not clouding his judgment.

Castiel goes out only late at night. Must be his job, but Dean doesn’t ask. He probably shouldn’t pry. If Cas wants to share, he will.

But the question lingers: _why_ did Cas save him? Even if you ignore the problem of what he was doing in the warehouse in the first place . . . _why_?

He cannot muster enough courage to ask the question.

During the daytime, they watch game shows. One evening, they are viewing _Jeopardy_. As usual, they shout out the answers. Dean gets all the pop culture ones and Cas gets, well, everything else. After a contestant answers one of the clues, Castiel turns to Dean and growls, “Vampires do _not_ sparkle.”

He sounds so damn personally affronted that Dean chuckles. “Yeah, man. It’s just some stupid book.”

“This . . . _Stephenie Meyer_ knows nothing of what she writes. Romance with vampires is ill-advised.” He pronounces the author’s name as if it's a curse, and Dean bites back a smile.

“Don’t get so worked up about it,” Dean cautions. “It’s just a dumb book.” Because, seriously? Why get so upset over something that’s _not even real_?

Castiel wrings his hands. “I am sorry. I suppose I got a little carried away.”

“Yeah.” Castiel narrows his eyes at him. “What?”

“I think we should set a date for your return.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve gotta wait ’til I’m well.”

Castiel studies him for much too long before he concedes, “Yes. Of course.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean has been with Castiel for a little over three weeks now, and he is due to leave any day. Dean continues to delay his departure, and Castiel understands why. Dean is afraid that people will treat him differently because of the scars on his face. That would be unfair—but life is unfair, as Castiel well knows. When Alastair attacked Dean, he not only injured the young man physically, but he also shattered him mentally. Castiel wishes he could comfort Dean, but Dean may not accept the offer. Besides, Castiel is uncertain if he can even provide what Dean needs. He requires a psychologist. Castiel has learned how to read Dean, however, and he is convinced Dean will never seek out the assistance. Castiel’s heart sinks at the thought of Dean, and the pain he foresees ahead for the police officer.

Nevertheless, the truth remains: he _will_ be gone soon. If Castiel is to defeat Alastair before then, Castiel must act. _Now._

He has observed Alastair’s nest long enough to learn their habits. More than ever, he suspects that the group will splinter if Alastair is no longer there to hold them together. A leadership struggle would ensue. Meg would favor Azazel, her father. Dixon would fight for Gordon, and Luther and Kate would side with Crowley. Bela would play everyone against each other until choosing whoever emerges victorious, and Ruby would abandon the others until the battles are over.

Ten. With Lilith, they would have been eleven. Quite a large nest, and Castiel is still unsure if he is aware of every member’s identity.

There is a slim time period during which Alastair is alone in the empty convenience store, from five a.m. until five-ten a.m, while the others wait for him in the ice cream parlor. Thankfully, the sun should not rise for some time.

Castiel’s most prominent asset is stealth. If he can sneak up to Alastair from behind, he stands a chance against the nest leader.

But this morning, when Castiel arrives at Alastair’s residence, the area is empty. After a minute of hesitation, he stalks into the convenience store and surveys his surroundings, wary of walking into an ambush as he had with Lilith. He canvasses the building, but no one seems to be around. He circles the store twice and decides he should examine the other places. At the exit, he hears a _crunch_ alerting him that his foot has stepped on something. He bends down and finds a slip of paper, words faintly scrawled in black ink. He straightens up, lifts it to his eyes, and reads:

> _Castiel,_
> 
> _Don’t you know it’s not nice to spy?_
> 
> _You will pay for Lilith._
> 
> _We will destroy you._
> 
> I _will destroy you._

Castiel crumples up the note and feels a chill creep up his spine. How much does Alastair know about Castiel? Is he watching Castiel right now? Laughing at his obvious distress?

His hands shake.

He rubs the pads of three fingers over his forehead and closes his eyes, moisture tinging his cheeks. Alastair is too formidable an opponent for him. He will obliterate the town, and Castiel will not be able to thwart the disaster.

But he has to try.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Dean inspects his reflection in the bathroom mirror, tracing the scars on his face, monitoring the movement of his fingers in the mirror. The smaller ones are beginning to fade, but most of them are still bright red. The largest, which runs from his right eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone, bisected by his right eye, stands out the most. It highlights the dull green of his eye. Another starts in the middle of his forehead and, in a slightly crooked line, runs to the top of his nose. Somehow, his nose escaped unscathed, thank God. A third curves from the edge of his left cheekbone to the philtrum (a word Dean learned from today’s episode of _Jeopardy_ ). The fourth crosses from the jawline on his right over to the philtrum, where it meets the third. The fifth starts at the left edge of his mouth and ends beside the bottom of his ear. The last mark is small, extending an inch from the right corner of his mouth.

He hates his disfigured face.

The bathroom morphs into an empty, spacious area, and he realizes he is back at the warehouse. The one where he’d chased that fuckin’ psychopath. His eyes are darting around again, and he ponders which direction to run in. He chooses the back, and there he encounters the same three bodies, attached to tubes through which blood flows.

His consciousness jumps, and that bastard is suddenly here. The reddish-brown beard and hair frames a long face with frigid pale blue eyes, eyes that seem devoid of life.

The man makes Dean his punching bag, and Dean falls to his knees. The son of a bitch flourishes a knife and begins slicing freakin’ _everywhere_ —

Pain lances through his body.

His damn face is on fire.

He clutches at it as he howls until his throat hurts almost as much as everything else.

The man disappears, and a blurry version of Sam stands in front of him.

“Sammy?” Dean whimpers.

“You look like hell, Dean,” Sam scoffs. Dean barks a mirthless laugh then bursts into tears. Sam crouches down and cradles his chin, staring too intently at him. “What happened to you?” He sneers. “You’re not my brother anymore. You’re a fucking monster.”

“No, Sammy, please, it’s me—” Dean gasps.

Sam slaps him, and Dean emits a friggin’ _squeak_. It didn’t hurt, not really, but his heart lurches because Sam is looking at him with derision. “Don’t you _dare_ speak to me, monster.”

The scene shifts, and _no_ , he knows what this is—

His childhood home, the white clapboard house, engulfed in flames as it had been last year.

From amid the flames, Mom and Dad gaze at him in disapproval.

“You’re not Dean,” they say. Of course. He’s too revolting to be their son. He attempts to hide from them, but he can’t. They stare at him with accusation, _why didn’t he arrive in time to save them?_

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, but he realizes that’s not good enough.

Someone is jostling him, punishing him for his cowardice, but—

“Dean,” a low voice says kindly.

“Huh,” he breathes, and the burning house is gone, and he’s in the dark, with—

Steady blue eyes regarding him.

They don’t judge.

“You were having a nightmare,” the owner of those blue eyes—Cas—reports.

To Dean’s shame, he collapses into tears.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas sighs, squeezing into the bed with him. It’s a tight fit with two grown men in a twin bed.

“I’m such a fuckup,” Dean laments.

“No,” Cas says. A hand insinuates itself in its hair, stroking it as Mom had when he’d experienced bad dreams as a child.

“Look at my freakin’ hideous face,” Dean cries.

“It is not hideous.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.” Castiel caresses each of the scars and kisses him on the brow.

“How can I go back when I look like this?”

“You are strong. And beautiful.”

Dean snorts. “Save the lines for someone who’ll believe them.”

“Dean,” Cas whispers, and he wraps both arms around him, friggin’ _spooning_ him, and Dean doesn’t even say anything about that shit. Whatever, Cas is just weird.

Cas rests a chin on Dean’s head and hums a tune. Probably some dumb classical music, but it’s calming.

xxxxxxxxxxx

It has been a week and a half since Castiel moved into an apartment with the Miltons. Michael is painting, and Castiel is reading a book. Anna enters their quarters with a boy who appears to be about seventeen.

“Finally!” Michael exclaims, putting aside his work. His eyes meet Castiel’s. “Time for us to have a little fun.” Castiel assumes this will be a normal feeding, and he leaps toward the boy, but Michael holds him back. “Nuh uh.” Castiel raises his eyebrows in confusion. Michael reaches into a wardrobe and pulls out three swords and a length of rope. Anna shoves the boy to the ground, and Michael binds the boy’s wrists and ankles. The boy looks petrified.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks.

“It’s been so boring around here,” Michael yawns.

Anna smirks. “This should prove amusing.”

“I still don’t understand.”

The Miltons’ grins are frightening. “Oh, you will,” Anna assures him. She brandishes the sword an inch from the boy’s eyes.

And carves one out.

Bloodcurdling screams emanate from the boy. Anna and Michael laugh. The eye rolls across the floor and lands by Castiel’s left foot. Blood pours from the boy’s eye socket, and Castiel feels nauseated.

“You call this fun?” he frets.

“Oh, don’t be so squeamish,” Anna snaps.

“You’ll like it when it’s your turn,” Michael asserts.

He will? Most definitely not.

Michael cuts out the boy’s other eye. More shrieks ensue.

“I think you should stop,” Castiel says.

“But we’re just getting started,” Anna replies.

They whittle out chunks of his skin, and Castiel flinches every time. He wonders why the neighbors do not confront them or alert the authorities.

Perhaps they are scared of the Miltons. Castiel wouldn’t blame them.

But he’s also well-aware that people do not like to become involved.

Castiel should stop them, but all he can do is gape, aghast as the Miltons continue to wield their swords.

He is too much of a craven to interfere.

When half of the boy’s skin has been peeled off, Anna picks up the third sword from the floor and tosses it to Castiel. He catches it and stares at her and Michael with wide eyes.

“You should have a go,” Anna tells him.

“What?” he responds.

“Try it,” Michael echoes.

“No. Let’s just feed already,” Castiel huffs.

“Do it,” Anna repeats, her tone menacing.

“ _No_.”

“We’ll do it to you, then.” He inclines his head. Better him than the boy. Anna points her sword at him and sighs, “You disappoint us, Castiel.”

“We had such faith in you,” Michael says. They proceed toward him, and he backs away until he hits a wall.

First, they each skim an arm with their blades; after a few minutes, they stab deeper, cutting through his clothes, first targeting the biceps, then his thighs—

Their swords strip away hunks of flesh.

He screams, and _damn_ him, he cannot endure this, even if the skin will replenish itself—

“All right,” he weeps.

“All right, _what_?” Anna replies.

He holds out a hand. “Give me the sword.”

Anna grins. “That’s my boy. Now. Start with the soles of his feet.” Castiel silently obeys, attempting to block out the boy’s shrieks. Anna directs him to cut off toes, fingers, more, and he does so without hesitation.

This _is_ quite the diverting task.

He chuckles with the Miltons, and when they finish with the boy, they drink. Then they fuck, their grunts animalistic.

Afterward, Castiel retreats into his room and curls up in bed, sobbing into his pillow. What has he become? How could he _enjoy_ what he’d just done? Why is he so weak?

He trembles, and he is not sure if his body will ever cease the motion.

A hand rocks his shoulder. “Cas?” a familiar voice ventures.

Castiel’s eyes fly open, a handsome man before him.

Dean.

He cringes, putting as much distance between himself and Dean as he can. But Dean remains right in front of him, leaning against the arm of the couch.

“You okay?” Dean inquires.

Castiel recoils from his gentle tone. “Get away from me!” he screeches. Dean places a hand on his shoulder, and he swats it away. Dean looks hurt, and Castiel wishes he could take that away.

“Cas—”

“Get away from me!” he yells again.

“But—”

How can he make Dean understand? “You need to stay away from me, Dean. I’m—” His voice hitches in his throat. “I have done terrible, terrible things. I’m not good for you.”

Dean frowns. “But, Cas—”

“Stay away, please?” Castiel beseeches him. “I will only poison you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The philtrum is the indentation between the nose and the top lip.
> 
> I hope this chapter is all right. Thanks for reading! Comments are very welcome!


	6. The Truth Will Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains an attempted rape and a bit of torture.

Castiel’s shouts had torn Dean from his sleep, and now he's wide awake even though it’s only four a.m. Cas had looked so . . . haunted, even terrified. What had he been dreaming about? Dean had thought he could help Cas work through the nightmare, but instead Cas had pushed him away as if Dean means nothing more to him than Joe Blow.

Then again, why should he? That whole incident the other night, when he’d crawled into bed with Dean, had been nothing more than Cas being his weird self.

He’d warned Dean that he’d done “terrible things.”

What the fuck was he talking about?

Dean mulls the issue over as he enjoys a long, luxurious shower. Damn, he’d missed showers while being stuck in that bed. Sometimes he takes two a day just because he can.

Castiel is an enigma. One day, Cas is holding him close, and the next, he is flinging a wide space between himself and Dean.

No matter what, Dean is drawn to him just as a drowning man is coaxed deeper into the water.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get that image out of his head--Castiel huddling within himself on the couch, burrowing into his trenchcoat as if hiding behind a shield. Eyes staring straight through Dean, at only God knew what.

After stepping out of the shower and toweling off, Dean wraps the towel around his torso, careful not to jostle his broken arm. He glances at Cas on his way to the bedroom, and is it his imagination, or do Cas’s eyes linger a little too long on his torso? Nah, no fuckin’ way. When Cas notices Dean observing him, he averts his eyes and buries himself further inside the trenchcoat, which he has wrapped around himself like a blanket. He props his elbows on his knees and covers his face with his arms, looking as if he is trying to make himself smaller than he already is.

Whatever.

In the bedroom, Dean throws on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt Cas loaned him.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Castiel ensures Dean is in a deep sleep before he goes grocery shopping. It is two in the morning, and he does not want to endure questions about where he is going at such a late hour.

Dean is aware that Castiel often leaves the cabin at night, and he does not understand why Dean has not quizzed him about the matter. No doubt he will do so at some point.

If he so chose, Castiel could shop during the day, but his time would be limited. If he stays in the sun too long, he will obtain a nasty sunburn, as he once learned the hard way. Besides, he prefers patronizing stores during the nighttime, if only because he encounters fewer people.

Dean should return home, Castiel muses. Castiel’s presence is not good for him. His brother must certainly miss him. His friends are probably worried about him, too, as well as his colleagues.

But Castiel still has not caught Alastair, which, ideally, he should accomplish before Dean departs.

Otherwise, the police will pursue Alastair, and if they find him first, he will massacre them.

He discovered Alastair’s note four days ago, yet he has learned nothing about Alastair’s new whereabouts, though not from lack of trying.

He shivers as he pulls into the Wal-Mart parking lot. How much does Alastair know about him? Castiel believes he has been careful, but what if he has made mistakes? What if Alastair knows where he lives?

No, surely he does not know that information. If so, he would have snatched Dean away by now. The manner in which Lilith had spoken about him—it had sounded as if Alastair was eager to have Dean Winchester, that he considered Dean the prey he had been cheated out of.

Castiel should not leave Dean alone for too long, just in case.

An elderly man with a cane welcomes Castiel as he shuffles into the establishment. It never ceases to amaze him that Wal-Mart would hire a greeter for the hours between midnight and six a.m. Perhaps if Castiel ever needs a job, he could seek one at Wal-Mart, though he might be too awkward for this kind of work. People often avoid him because of the quirk, and Dean constantly ribs him for it. Sometimes the teasing seems affectionate, but how can that be?

“Do you always do your shopping in the middle of the night?” the greeter queries.

Castiel smiles. “Yes.”

“Night owl, huh?”

“Something like that.”

He grabs a cart and heads toward the produce section.

He notices a bag of apples and, on a whim, decides to purchase it. He recalls Dean once mentioning a love of pie, especially apple. Perhaps he can bake one for Dean. He has never cooked anything before, but how hard can it be?

Castiel maneuvers the cart up and down the aisles, tossing in food Dean likes. Mostly junk food. He reads the label on one of the bags of chips, and he feels sick. What are all these _unnatural_ ingredients? How can one ingest such substances? Perhaps he can convince Dean to eat some vegetables.

After filling up his cart, Castiel rolls it toward a cash register. There, a bored-looking woman wearing thick glasses looks up at him. “Oh, it’s you,” she mumbles.

“Hello, Helen,” Castiel replies. “How are you?”

“Good, thanks for askin’,” she responds as she smacks her gum.

He pays the bill in cash and wheels the cart outside toward his car. He pops open the trunk and stuffs it with the items he purchased.

That’s when he hears it.

A woman begging, afraid.

If not for his preternatural sense of hearing, he might not have detected it. Even though he can discern her tone, he cannot parse out individual words.

Not bothering to shut the trunk, Castiel dashes across the street toward the sound of the voice. Behind a shopping center housing several small retailers, he spots the woman.

And a man.

His fingers are digging into her shoulders, holding her prisoner against the wall.

He shoves his body flush against hers.

“No, Adrian, please . . . ” the woman weeps.

“Y’know you want it,” the man cackles in a rough voice as he rips at her shirt.

Castiel darts toward the man and slams him against the wall, drawing blood where his chin grazes the edifice.

“What the--?” the man begins. The woman stares at Castiel with wide eyes.

“Run!” Castiel hisses at her. She sprints toward a nearby apartment complex.

“What the fuck d’ya think you’re doin’?” the man—Adrian, Castiel supposes his name is—demands.

“What the fuck do _you_ think you’re doing?” Castiel parrots back.

“Just gettin’ some nookie. What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything,” Castiel snarls. “If she does not give her consent.”

The man guffaws. “You know how girls are. They say no when they mean yes.”

“I think not.”

The man elbows Castiel, and he stumbles backward. Adrian is clumsy and slow, however, and soon Castiel has a firm grip on him. He bangs Adrian’s head on the wall and limp long black hair blankets the man's face as he loses consciousness.

He will take Adrian home. He will question the man . . . if this is Adrian’s first offense, perhaps he will let the man off with a warning. If not—

Well, if not, then Castiel will feed.

He grins to himself. Should he be this excited? He does need to renew his blood supply, which is low.

His mouth waters, anticipating the taste of human blood.

There is no aphrodisiac quite like it.

His thoughts make him feel dirty.

When he reaches his car, he hefts Adrian into the back seat, closes the trunk, slides into the driver’s seat, and locks the doors. One of the many advantages of his quick reflexes is that he can complete these actions in less than a minute.

He speeds, and when he arrives home, he carries Adrian’s body into the basement and lays it out on the long table. In the cabinets, he rummages around until he finds a needle and the truth serum. When he had lived in New Orleans with Benny, they had associated with a sorceress named Missouri Moseley. She had shared her recipe for the truth serum, along with other potions.

Benny. Castiel has not had any friends since Benny’s death.

He shakes off the memories and injects Adrian with the serum before binding him to the table with a rope across his waist, wrists, and ankles.

He sits in a chair beside the table and waits for Adrian to wake up.

It takes a while, but Adrian does regain consciousness. “Where the hell am I?” he slurs.

Castiel stands up and looms above the man. “I will be the one asking the questions,” Castiel asserts.

“Fuck you!”

Castiel slaps him. “Behave.” He pauses before commanding, “Tell me. How many women have you slept with?”

“None of your goddamn business!” Castiel retrieves a dagger from the supply closet and drags the blade from the crook of Adrian’s elbow to his wrist. Blood gushes out, and Castiel must restrain himself.

Not yet.

“What the fuck!” the man screams.

“How. Many. Women. Have you slept with,” Castiel repeats.

“Seven.”

“How many of those women said no?”

“No means yes.” Castiel slices over the man’s biceps, and he howls, “Fuckin’ psychopath!”

“How many said no?”

“Three . . . four.”

Four. This fucker has raped four women. Castiel cannot abide rapists. Even Anna and Michael had never strayed that far down the moral abyss. Yes, they had done heinous things, as had Castiel (as Castiel still does, though only with those who deserve it), but they had never violated a person in such an intimate fashion.

“Have you ever been to jail?”

“No.”

 _No_. The man is a repeat offender. He has never suffered for his crimes.

If Castiel releases him, Adrian will only commit more of his foul deeds. It is there in his tone, his face, his eyes, his belief that no means yes.

It is permissible to consume him.

To feed.

Giddy, Castiel laughs. He will treat himself. “Time for your punishment,” Castiel growls. The man gapes at him, and Castiel licks the blood off the dagger.

“You’re insane,” the man whispers.

Castiel ignores him as he begins to work on Adrian’s other arm. He peels the skin of off both limbs and revels in Adrian’s screams.

He gives free reign to his bloodlust, the core of his nature. It has been chained up for too long.

He severs digits, and the blood hypnotizes him.

The sight of dripping blood stimulates his hunger.

He can resist it no more.

His fangs elongate, and he sinks his teeth into Adrian’s neck.

The blood floods into his mouth, slipping between his teeth and coating his tongue—it is positively orgasmic. A groan escapes from his lips.

He is so absorbed in the moment that he pays no heed to anything else.

“What. The. Fuck,” a familiar voice intones.

Castiel’s eyes roll up toward the speaker—Dean, poised at the top of the stairs that lead to the house.

He pries his mouth off of Adrian, who he notes is now comatose. “Dean,” he rasps.

Dean stares at him, expression mortified, and Castiel gazes back, frozen.

Dean flees, and Castiel chases after him.

xxxxxxxxxx

A scream pierces through Dean’s sleep. At first, he thinks he must’ve imagined it, but then he hears it again.

It is coming from the basement. Curious, Dean slips out of bed, stumbles into the hallway, and glances at the door to the basement.

It is unlocked, cracked open a sliver, a dim light emanating from inside.

Another scream sounds, followed by disturbing laughter.

Cas doesn’t want him to go down there, but hey, the door’s open, and Dean needs to know what the hell’s going on.

He ventures through the entrance and onto the top step.

And there—

Oh, God—

A man is tied to a table that leans against a wall. Standing over him, teeth buried in the guy’s throat is—

 _Cas_.

“What. The. Fuck,” Dean remarks.

Cas’s eyes move toward Dean, but his mouth remains on the man’s throat. Dean swears he hears flesh tearing as Cas pulls his teeth free. “Dean,” he utters.

For a moment, Dean is too stunned to react. Something in Cas’s manner is stone cold, and Dean is almost as frightened as he was when he encountered that bastard in the warehouse.

What the fuck is he doing just standing around? It’s not safe here.

Dean runs to the bedroom, intent on leaving. Obviously, Cas is insane. Sadistic. Maybe even a cannibal, like Jeffrey Dahmer after all.

How could Dean’s instincts have been so wrong?

He picks up the uniform from its spot on the desk chair. He’d gone to sleep in his boxers and a T-shirt belonging to Cas, but he doesn’t want to keep anything that’s Cas’s, so he tears off the T-shirt then dons the uniform. He puts on the cap and spins around to find himself face to face with Cas.

“Dean, let me explain,” Cas pleads.

Dean’s attention focuses on the smear of blood surrounding Cas’s mouth. A perverse part of himself contemplates licking the blood off of him, but Dean quickly squashes the thought. “What is there to explain?” Dean retorts.

“I—” Cas begins, but nothing comes out of his mouth.

Dean thinks something seems up with Cas’s teeth, but _no fuckin’ way_ —

“What’s wrong with your teeth?” Dean asks.

“What?” Dean points at a sharpened canine, and Castiel laughs hollowly. “I am an unholy creature.”

“An unholy creature?” Dean echoes dumbly. _No. No freakin’_ way— _that shit’s not even real._ “Vampire,” he breathes. Castiel nods curtly. “You’re jokin’, right?”

“No, Dean,” Castiel answers sadly.

“So, what, this is what you do? Kill people so you can drink their blood? That shit’s not okay, man.”

“I know.”

Dean’s not a dumbass; he can put two and two together. “So you are workin’ with the serial killer.”

“No,” Castiel replies sharply. “I have nothing to do with that.”

“What you were doin’ to that guy down there—were you plannin’ on doin’ that to me? That why you were keepin’ me around?”

“No!” Cas exclaims. He narrows his eyes at Dean. “If I desired to feed on you, I would have done it already.”

“Then what the fuck am I doin’ here?”

“I did not think you should die. And you would have if I had not brought you home.”

Yeah. Dean’s well-aware of that. He heads toward the doorway, but Cas blocks him from leaving the room. “Let me through,” Dean demands.

“May I say something first? Please?”

Dean sighs. “Fine.”

“I am not what you are thinking. Yes, I require blood, but . . . I usually consume animals—”

“Because _that’s_ so much better.”

“It is an imperfect alternative,” Castiel acknowledges, “but it is better than taking the lives of humans. At least, I like to think so.”

“Then what the hell were you doin’ with that guy down there?”

Castiel wrings his hands and gazes down at them. “I allow myself certain . . . exceptions.”

“Oh, so it’s fine if you munch on people once in a while, huh?”

Castiel looks into his eyes, and _damn_ that crystal blue is intense. “He is a rapist, Dean.”

“That’s supposed to change things?” It might, but Dean’s not going to mention that.

“He should not get away with it. I am meting out justice.”

“That’s what the law’s for, Cas.”

“But the law does not always get everything right, does it?”

Now Cas is just insulting his profession. “The law works. The right thing is to turn him over to the authorities and let the system take care of it.”

“Many rapists get away with their crimes, Dean. You must know that. Especially if no one is willing to testify against them, because they are afraid or ashamed . . . ”

“Stop makin’ excuses,” Dean snaps.

Cas folds his arms over his chest. “Tell me this, Dean. You must have seen a criminal escape punishment at least once. Is it right for that person to experience no consequences for his or her actions? Or what about that person given a much lighter sentence than he or she deserves? Do you not ever wish that you could take justice into your own hands?”

Okay. Maybe Dean does. He respects his work and thinks he does a damn good job, but still.

However, what Cas is doing—drinking blood, no one should be doing _that_ , certainly. What it all boils down to is Cas rationalizing his actions. “No,” he says. He pushes Cas aside. “Now let me go. Or are ya gonna kill me?” he challenges.

“No. Would you like me to drive you into town? It is a long trek on foot.”

Dean snorts. “Hell no.”

“Very well. Good luck, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t bother replying as he sweeps out of the cabin and into the woods. He should have returned home long ago; it had been selfish to stay here. Cowardly, to let his fear of people seeing his scars dictate his behavior. He can give his colleagues an accurate description of the serial killer, and he should have gone to them ASAP with the information.

As he wanders in the forest, Dean realizes he has no idea which direction to take. And Cas still has his phone, dammit. Dean considers going back to ask for the phone, but he decides against it. He still can’t wrap his head around it—Cas is a _vampire_.

No way is he ever seeing Cas again.

He feels a dull ache in his heart, but he ignores it. Everything he’d ever believed about Cas is a lie. He is dangerous.—

 _That’s hot_.

What the fuck is wrong with Dean’s brain? _Shut up_.

Yeah, no more Cas. Ever.

Now he just has to figure out how to get back to town.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel had known Dean would have to leave sometime, but a melancholy creeps up on him regardless.

He had believed he could keep his secret from Dean. How foolish of him.

The police officer had discovered it in the worst possible way, too. Caught him feeding. How had Castiel been so stupid? How could he have allowed the basement door to remain ajar?

Dean will hate him now. Not that he doesn’t deserve it, vile being that he is.

At least he has Adrian to feed on, though that is small comfort.

When he returns to the basement, Adrian’s eyes are moving, his lips trembling slightly.

Castiel grabs the knife. Adrian will know his wrath, and Castiel will feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think most Wal-Marts have greeters late at night, but I wanted Cas to interact with a couple of employees at the store.
> 
> Now that Dean is returning home, we'll get to see more characters in the coming chapters. Sadly, it also means that Cas and Dean will be separated for at least a couple of chapters. But they are certainly not finished with each other.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Some of this content is out of my writing comfort zone, so I hope it 's satisfactory. Kudos and comments (I'd love to know any thoughts!) are very welcome! As always, thanks to those of you who have left kudos, commented, bookmarked, and/or subscribed!


	7. Trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all about Dean and contains no Cas, but Cas's POV will definitely be back in the next chapter.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Dean’s journey through the forest is interminable, and only when the pink and orange hues of dawn peak into the sky does he encounter any semblance of civilization. When he stumbles upon a Gas ’n Sip, he knows he has reached the outskirts of town. Relieved to finally discover signs of human habitation, he staggers into the gas station, panting with thirst. At the sound of his entry, the woman at the cash register glances up at him and gasps. Yeah, he guesses he looks like shit, what with all the brambles in his hair and dirt on his uniform—oh, and his freakin’ scars, obviously.

“Nora,” Dean mumbles, reading the name tag pinned to her shirt, “ya got a phone I can use?” She remains silent and continues to stare at him. Okay, he understands, he’s fuckin’ ugly, but get over it already.

After a minute, she hesitantly says, “You’re—you’re him.”

“Huh? Who?” Dean murmurs.

“That cop, the one who disappeared a few weeks ago . . . ”

How does she know that? It must’ve been on the news. Dean offers his most winning smile. Not that it’ll charm the pants off her now that he’s got so many friggin’ hideous scars all over his face, but hey, it’s a habit. “Yeah. That’s me.” She claps a hand over her mouth. “A phone?” he reminds her.

“Yes. Of course.” She pulls her cell phone out of her purse and hands it to him.

“Great. Thanks.” He dials the station, and a familiar voice greets him. “Jo?”

“Yes. Who’s this?” Jo replies skeptically.

“What, you don’t recognize my voice? I’m hurt.”

“ _Dean?!_ ”

“Yep. It’s me, babe.”

He imagines the face Jo must be making. “It’s really you?!”

“Sure is.”

“Oh, my God! Where are you?”

“Some Gas ’n Sip. Not sure where.” Nora supplies him with the address, which he recites to Jo.

“Stay put. We’re comin’ to get ya.”

“Sure thing, sweet cheeks.”

“If you’re tryin’ to get a rise outta me, it ain’t gonna work, pal. See ya in a few.” A click signals that Jo has hung up.

Now he just has to wait. He leans against the checkout counter and watches as Nora retrieves a water bottle from the beverage selections. She brings it to Dean and says, “You look like you could use this.”

Dean gulps down a third of the bottle and grins at her. “Thanks.”

“Where have you been?” When Dean doesn’t answer, she adds, “Sorry. Guess that’s none of my business.”

“Nah, it’s all right,” Dean assures her. “I’m just tired.” Damn right it’s none of her business, but her question sparks an anxiety in him. People are gonna wanna know where he was that whole time. How long has it been, anyway? Nora had said he’d been gone for _weeks_. How many weeks?

What is he gonna tell his colleagues when they ask him about it? What’s he gonna tell _Sam_?

Nothing as easy as the truth. Why make things complicated?

But would anyone believe him? What’s he gonna say, oh, I was with this dude named Castiel, and he’s a vampire? Like they’d believe _that_.

Even if they would believe him, does he want to tell them about Castiel? Something about it seems too . . . _private_.

If he told them the whole thing, about the guy he saw Cas drinking from, they’d want to hunt Castiel down. Arrest him, probably, vampire or not.

Dean’s heart burns at the thought.

But why should he protect Cas? The man is a monster, after all—not even a man, in fact

But something in Dean still clings to Cas, wishes to protect him. He can’t be all bad; he did save Dean’s life, after all.

No. Dean won’t repay Cas’s generosity by siccing the law on him.

The bell over the door tinkles, and Nora resumes her place behind the cash register. A man and his son proceed to the checkout, and they gape at Dean, both of them seeming a little freaked out. Dean turns his head away, hating the mixture of horror and pity on their faces. He keeps his eyes focused on the wall behind Nora, shielding his face from any future customers.

After he’s been standing like that for a while, a female voice behind him exclaims, “Dean!”

Dean whirls around and sees three of his colleagues: Jo Harvelle, Garth Fitzgerald, and Police Chief Victor Henriksen. He offers them a brief grin before aiming his eyes at the ground. “Hey, guys,” he murmurs.

“Oh, my God,” Jo says as she bounds toward him and envelops him in a tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she declares, her words muffled as she buries her face in Dean’s shoulder. When she draws back, she points an accusing finger at him. “Don’t you _ever_ do that again!”

The corners of Dean’s mouth quirk up. “I’ll try not to,” he says softly.

Victor pats Dean on the shoulder and smiles grimly. “You don’t know how good it is to see ya. We’d almost given up; we thought you were . . . dead. I’m sorry.”

“What’re ya apologizin’ for?” Dean asks.

“We shouldn’t have lost hope.” Is Victor actually sniffling? Dean doesn’t know what to do with that.

“Well, you know what they say,” Dean jibes. “Nothin’ can keep a Winchester down.”

Garth plasters on his characteristically goofy grin. “I’m glad you’re back, Dean,” he says.

“C’mon. We should get down to the station,” Victor puts in. Dean thanks Nora for letting him use her phone then follows the other three officers outside. He realizes that they never mentioned his scars or even hinted at noticing them.

He’s grateful.

xxxxxxxxxx

When they arrive at the station, Dean’s colleagues rush to greet him. There’s even a makeshift banner declaring, _“Welcome Home, Dean!”_ Damn, they must’ve prepared that fast. No one says anything about how crappy he must look, and though Dean appreciates it, it starts to bother him. Is everyone going to be walking on eggshells around him? Is that why no one has commented on his shoddy appearance? Because he doesn’t want that. They should treat him like a normal human being, dammit.

Victor beams at the other officers and holds up a hand, stilling the noise in the room. “I know, I know. We’re all excited to see Dean,” he announces. “But we’ve gotta ask him a few questions before we celebrate.” He turns to Dean. “Is that okay with you?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Dean mutters. Not like he has a friggin’ choice.

Victor nods. “Very good. Come with me.” Victor leads him into his office, where Bobby Singer, one of the senior detectives, is waiting with a notepad in his lap. “Are you ready to begin?” Victor asks after they sit down, Victor behind the desk, Dean in front of it next to Bobby.

Dean shrugs. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“All right. Excellent. Let’s start with that first night, the one in the industrial district. What happened?”

Dean gestures at himself and retorts, “What the fuck does it look like happened?” Victor scowls at him, and Dean sighs. “Fine. Sorry. It’s just—” Dammit, why the hell are his eyes filling up with moisture? “—it’s hard to describe, okay?”

“Can you try?”

“Sure. I guess.” Dean takes a deep breath. “So I went there to check things out, right?” Victor nods. “When I got there, there was this . . . guy. Hanging around. I followed procedure. Y’know, told him to put his hands up and all that.” Victor nods at him to continue. “He ran, so I followed him into this warehouse, and there were these bodies suspended, with, like, tubes attached to them. The tubes were, like . . . blood was flowing from them into this bowl.” A shiver courses through Dean’s body. He notices that Bobby has turned pale.

Victor frowns. “We didn’t find anything like that when we were searching for you.”

“No shit!” Dean shouts. “The fucker had already cleaned it up by then!” Victor glares at him. “Sorry.”

“Then what happened?”

“The guy attacked me from behind. He did all this,” Dean indicates his body once more.

“Who patched you up?”

“Huh?”

Victor waves a hand at the sling on Dean’s arm. “Obviously, someone tended to you after the attack. Who?”

“Um—” Shit, now Dean has to decide what to say about Cas. “I dunno.”

“You mean you don’t know his name? Or her name?”

“Nope. I dunno anythin’.”

Victor narrows his eyes. “Are you sure? A few days after your disappearance, you called your brother. Sam. Told him you were staying at someone’s house. That this person didn’t want anyone to know where he lives. You don’t remember that?”

“Nope.”

“What do you remember?”

“Um. Well. Getting attacked by that guy in the warehouse, but after that, nada. Not until I walked into the gas station this morning.”

“Interesting,” Victor says to himself. “You _do_ know that lying to the police is a crime? Even if you’re a police officer yourself?”

“I ain’t lyin’!” Dean protests, cursing himself for his quivering voice.

“I didn’t say you were,” Victor counters. “Now. This person who attacked you. You know what he looks like?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then. We’ll send you to Sarah so she can complete a sketch. How’s that sound?”

“All right.” Dean picks at a hangnail then inquires, “Can I say one more thing?” Victor nods for him to go on. “The guy—I’m pretty sure he’s the serial killer.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Those bodies in the warehouse.” Victor looks a little skeptical, so Dean adds, pointing at his scars, “Look at me, for chrissake! This pattern seem familiar to you?!”

“Calm down, Dean,” Victor urges, and only then does Dean realize he has been yelling. “I can see that the marks are . . . similar to the victims.” Dean snorts derisively. “But we don’t want to jump to hasty conclusions.”

“’Cause there’s probably _two_ people in town who do shit like this.” Victor looks at him as if to say, “I’m not amused,” and for some reason Dean bursts into laughter.

“I think you should go see Sarah now,” Victor decides. “Bobby?”

“Follow me, Dean,” Bobby says as he stands up and folds his notepad. Dean obeys, and Bobby claps him on the shoulder as they proceed to Sarah Blake’s office. “Glad to have you back, kiddo,” Bobby tells him gruffly.

“Thanks,” Dean replies.

Bobby explains that he’ll wait for Dean while he’s talking to Sarah. With Sarah, Dean remains relatively quiet while he describes the attacker’s appearance. When she’s finished with the illustration, she holds it up to him, and the uncanny likeness gives him a chill.

“How’s that look?” she asks him.

“Exactly like him,” Dean answers. The same long face, beard, and hair. Hell, she even got the emotionless eyes right.

“Do you see anything that needs to be changed?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay. We’ll circulate this to all the major news outlets.” She pauses then ends with, voice aching with sincerity, “I hope we find the bastard.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

Outside, Dean finds Bobby leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Finished?” Bobby ventures. Dean nods. “Good.” He clears his throat. “Um. There’s a coupla things I gotta tell ya.”

Bobby’s uncharacteristic nervousness makes Dean antsy. “Yeah?”

“Victor wants ya to take a couple days off.”

“What?! Fuck that!” Dean spits.

“It’s not a suggestion,” Bobby continues, eyes avoiding Dean’s. “He’s putting you on leave.”

“What the hell?!”

“Please keep your voice down,” Bobby pleads, and that’s when Dean notices all eyes on him. Dammit. “I told him it was a bad idea, that you’d want to work—”

“Damn straight,” Dean huffs.

“—but he says you’ve been through something very traumatic, and that you need time off.”

“But I don’t.” Seriously. How’s he supposed to work through his shit if he can’t, well, _work_? He wants to catch the serial killer, not sit around twiddling his thumbs and crying about his emotions.

“I know that, son. But he doesn’t. There’s somethin’ else, too.”

“What?”

“He thinks ya should talk to the station psychologist.”

“No. I’m not doin’ that.”

“Dean,” Bobby admonishes, “I think you should. It’s the only way Victor’s gonna let you back on the job. Just convince Dr. Tran that you’re decent, and it’ll be fine.”

“Dr. Tran? What happened to Dr. Cartwright?”

“Moved on to greener pastures.”

“Whatever. Where’s this Dr. Tran?”

Bobby guides him to an office, where the door proclaims its occupant as “Dr. Kevin Tran.” Bobby knocks on the door and utters, “He’s ready” before leaving Dean alone with the guy.

God, he’s just a boy.

This is _so_ not going to go well.

“Hello, Dean,” Dr. Tran greets him. “Please, have a seat.”

“Who said you could call me Dean?” he grumbles.

“Would you prefer I call you Mr. Winchester?” When Dean doesn’t reply, Dr. Tran continues, “Well, Mr. Winchester. You may call me Kevin, if you wish.”

“I don’t wish,” Dean snaps. Kevin’s words produce a dull echo in his mind, that of a soothing voice saying, _Just address me as Castiel_ and _Cas is fine._

“I see you prefer to maintain distance.” _Fuck off with your psychoanalytic bullshit_. Dr. Tran folds his hands together on the desk. “What would you like to discuss today?”

“What’s there to discuss?”

Dr. Tran heaves a forlorn sigh. “You have just been through a significant trauma, D—Mr. Winchester.” Dr. Tran blushes at his slipup.

“Says who?”

“It’s all right not to be all right, Mr. Winchester. After what happened, even the strongest person would crack.”

“I ain’t cracked. Guess I’m just special.”

“What about your memory loss?”

“What about it?”

“Aren’t you interested in recovering your memories? There could be valuable clues there.”

“Nah.”

“Don’t you want to thank your mysterious savior?” _I already have_. Or had he? He doesn’t remember. God, did he really never thank Cas for saving him? “No? Well. We still need to unlock those memories.”

Great. So they wouldn’t leave him alone until he “remembered” what he claimed to have forgotten. Should he just tell them about Cas after all?

_No_. Cas wants his privacy, with good reason. If anyone else discovered what Dean knew—

It’d be the end of Castiel.

Why should that be such a bad thing? Dean doesn’t know. He feels like there’s a chord in him attuned with Castiel, and that chord whispers of Castiel’s goodness.

Even if it’s not rational, deep down, Dean believes it.

So he will keep Cas’s secret.

“And you’re just the one to unlock them?” Dean snidely remarks.

“That is my job, yes.”

“Well, sorr- _y_ if I don’t want my brain picked apart by anyone, especially some _kid_ like you.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” Dr. Tran objects.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Sure. Whatever.” No way this dweeb is the same age as Sammy. He bounds to his feet and storms out of Dr. Tran’s office. Nearby, Bobby gives him a quizzical look. He stops in his tracks when he hears Jo shouting his name.

Once she catches up with him, Jo begins, “A bunch of us were wondering if you want to go to the Roadhouse with us after work. Y’know, to celebrate.”

Dean contemplates the offer for a while then shakes his head. “Thanks, Jo. But I’m not in the mood.” What the fuck is wrong with him? Since when has he ever turned down alcohol?

“That’s all right. We understand.” She returns to her desk, and someone familiar strolls into the station.

Sammy.

“It’s really you!” Sam exclaims when he spots Dean. He sprints toward his brother and throws his arms around Dean. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” Sam says as he pulls back. He’s wiping tears from his eyes.

Oh, Sammy.

“Good to see you, too, Sam,” Dean responds.

“How ’bout I take you home?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

They drive to the house in silence. When Sam parks in their driveway, Dean scrambles to his Impala and presses his lips to the roof. “God, I’ve missed you so much, baby,” Dean tells her.

“Yeesh. Get a room, will ya?” Sam says.

“Screw you.” Dean’s eyes caress his baby once more. “Don’t listen to him, baby. He doesn’t understand us.” Sam makes a gagging noise, and Dean ignores him.

Once they’re inside, Dean collapses on the couch with a sigh while Sam lingers in the kitchen. After a few minutes, he enters the living room bearing two cups of coffee, one of which he hands to Dean. “Thought you might want this,” he explains.

“Thanks, Sam,” Dean says as he takes a sip. Sam fixed it just the way he likes, with loads of sugar and cream. Dean supposes he should be ashamed of how girly he enjoys his coffee, but right now he couldn’t care less. It’s been _weeks_ since he’s gotten to taste anything this good.

Sam runs a thumb over the scar covering Dean’s eye, and Dean jerks away. “What happened to you?” Sam asks.

Jeez, is Sam gonna interrogate him, too? Fuck that. “Whaddaya think?” he scoffs.

“Was it him? The serial killer?”

“Yeah. Though Victor thinks we shouldn’t ‘jump to conclusions.’”

“Oh. So, where were you?”

If he’s gonna keep up his façade, he’s gotta lie to Sam, too, no matter how much he doesn’t want to. “I dunno.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean I dunno.”

“You don’t remember calling me? You said you were staying with some guy who didn’t want anyone to know where he lives.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Did I?”

He squirms as Sam studies him. “What’re you hiding?”

“What? Nothing!”

“Hmm.” Sam flicks a finger on the sling wrapped around Dean’s arm, and Dean flinches. “Sorry. But. Um. Who did this for you?” Dean shrugs. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because I don’t remember,” Dean maintains.

Sam’s hazel eyes are stuck on him, too intense. “No. That’s not it. That’s not it at all.” Sam taps his fingers on his knees. “I wish I knew what’s going on with you.”

Neither of them say anything more.

That night, Dean dreams of Cas.


	8. Life Goes On

After Castiel drains Adrian and burns his body, he languishes. Dean’s departure had occurred in the worst possible way. Not only will he never see Dean again, but they hadn’t even parted as friends. No doubt Dean believes he is disgusting.

Toward the afternoon, he realizes that he needs to move. If Dean tells the other law enforcement professionals where he lives, they will come snooping around, and Castiel has more important matters to worry about at the moment.

But what if Dean comes looking for him?

That is highly unlikely, he knows. And if Dean does return, he will not come as a comrade.

Castiel cannot leave town, however. He still has to defeat Alastair.

Where can he go?

Castiel surveys his surroundings and sighs. He’d been lucky to find this place. Already furnished, and with utilities. He doesn’t know who pays the bills, but someone must. Or perhaps the companies had forgotten to shut off the services. Either way, Castiel is not complaining.

His next dwelling, though, will probably lack these amenities.

He shouldn’t stay too far away from town, he decides; that would hinder his pursuit of Alastair.

He could live in town. He’s never done that before.

But that would engender many problems. People will expect him to pay rent, and it will be more difficult to feed with so many humans nearby. Fewer animals roam the area. Some humans own pets, but Castiel will not deprive them of their companions.

Nevertheless, he supposes he can manage. He will have to merely be cautious. Somewhere in town would be an ideal location from which to hunt Alastair.

He can inspect the town’s offerings and perhaps find a dwelling in which to squat, like a house for sale or an apartment for rent. If someone should stop by during the daytime, he can endure the sun for a limited time.

When night falls, Castiel packs up his essential possessions and drives into town. He considers a sudden notion. Why not sleep in his car? The backseat is comfortable enough, and he can cover himself with a blanket during the day. He has slept in worse places. He will just have to move the car periodically in order to avoid suspicion.

Once he takes care of Alastair, he will be moving on, anyway. Why settle in a building?

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean grabs a cup of coffee and pours himself a bowl of cereal before joining Sam in the living room. On the news, an illustration flashes, and Dean feels a momentary spike of fear. _It’s just a picture_ , he tells himself, _stop being a pussy._ The anchor urges viewers to call the police about any tips regarding the man’s whereabouts and explains that he is wanted for assaulting a police officer. Dean Winchester, who has been found and is relatively unharmed.

 _Relatively unharmed? What the fuck does that mean?_ _Guess my broken arm and ugly-ass face aren’t "real" injuries._

Dean perches his hat on his head, and Sam gives him a strange look. “What?” Dean snaps.

“I thought you were on leave,” Sam replies.

“I don’t care what Victor says. I’m goin’ to work.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Dean scrunches his forehead. “Whaddaya mean?”

Sam chews a bite of cereal then answers, “I dunno. You probably need some rest, dude.”

“Whaddaya think I’ve been doin’ for the past three weeks?” Dean fumes.

“I don’t know. You won’t tell me.” Dean doesn’t miss Sam’s surly tone.

“Right. Because I don’t remember.” Sam snorts, and Dean frowns. “What?”

“You’re such a bad liar, man.”

“Hey, you think I friggin’ _enjoy_ not remembering shit?”

Sam patters to the sink with his dishes, and Dean follows him. After dumping his items in the sink, Sam picks up his briefcase from the table and announces, “I’ve gotta go to work.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“When you feel like lettin’ me in on what’s up with you, let me know.” Sam swings open the door, and a minute later Dean hears him start up the car, off for another day at the law office.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean hisses as he tosses his mug at the far wall. He regrets it as soon as the cup leaves his hand. After the mug crashes into the wall, he sweeps up the debris and dumps it into the trash can.

Outside, Dean pats the roof of the Impala and says, “Time for a drive, baby.” He eases into the driver’s seat and mutters, “It’s been too damn long, yeah?” He digs around in his cassette collection until he finds a Led Zeppelin tape, which he pops into the stereo. He turns the volume up and sings along with each song, savoring the dulcet sounds of his favorite group.

 _I’ll never get to share this with Cas_ , he thinks wistfully.

Stupid. Why should he care?

“Dean, what’re you doing here?” Garth asks when Dean strolls into the station.

“Nice to see you, too, Garth,” Dean responds sarcastically.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on leave?”

“Nah.”

“You are,” the boss says behind him, and Dean cringes as he turns to face Victor. “I’m sorry, Dean, but at this time you are in no condition to work.”

“Of course I am!”

“We’ll wait until Kevin clears you for duty. Why don’t you go see him now?”

“Fine.” Dean makes his way to Dr. Tran’s office and knocks on the door. A voice encourages him to come in, and Dean follows suit.

“Good morning, Mr. Winchester,” Dr. Tran says with a little too much cheer. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

Dean shrugs. “Can you tell Victor that I’m fuckin’ ready to work?”

“That’s not how this works, Mr. Winchester.” He waves a hand at Dean’s face. “Let’s talk about that. How do you feel about what happened?”

“How does it work? What do I have to do to get back on the job?”

“You have to tell me about how you feel.”

“Great,” Dean mutters to himself. Tears begin clouding his vision, and fuck, why does he have to be such a whiny bitch?

“That’s good, Mr. Winchester. Let it all out,” Dr. Tran comments. Dean wants to slap the kid.

“What’s there to let out?” Dean huffs.

“I don’t know, Mr. Winchester. What is there?” God, he sounds like some five-year-old when he sits there repeating everything Dean says. It reinforces his boyish appearance.

“Obviously, I’m freakin’ ugly, okay!” Dean spits out.

“What makes you say that?”

“Have you seen my fuckin’ face?”

“It doesn’t signify.”

It does _signify_ , dammit. _You’ve just said the wrong thing, pal_.

 _Beautiful_ , he recalls Cas assuring him.

But Castiel is a psychopath.

Dr. Tran asks Dean further questions, but Dean refuses to speak another word. After a while, Dr. Tran dismisses him as if he’s a child in school. Before Dean leaves, Dr. Tran reminds him that they will need to discuss his situation if Dean wants to return to duty. _What the fuck ever_.

xxxxxxxxxxx

In the middle of the night, Castiel devours a squirrel he’d caught in the park. After he finishes draining the animal, he drops the carcass by a tree and stumbles back to his car, which he parks in a random neighborhood after driving for a few minutes. For Castiel, it is more natural to sleep in the daytime, but his circadian rhythm (if such a term even applies to him) has been irregular since he nursed Dean back to health. With Dean, in order to pass himself off as a real human, he had to stay awake during the day. Sure, he still left the cabin at night, but he had slept at night, too. Luckily, he does not require more than four hours of sleep.

Once he parks the car, Castiel throws a screen over the windshield and another one over the back window. That should block out the sunlight sufficiently enough when daytime arrives. Finally, he scrambles into the backseat and unravels a blanket, which he curls around his shoulders. As he drifts into sleep, he reminisces about his first meeting with Benny.

**New Orleans, 1805**

In New Orleans, Castiel was no anomaly. The supernatural flooded the city—vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and other entities as well as seers, sorcerers, and a diverse array of practitioners. However, Castiel preferred to keep to himself. The vampires seemed to relish ripping people apart, and while Castiel possessed an instinctual bloodlust, he detested himself for it. He had learned how to time his feedings so that his appetite did not drive him into a frenzy. If he waited too long to drink, he would become as savage as the others. Sometimes he thought about just letting himself die, but when he deprived himself of blood, he lost control of himself. It was physically impossible to starve himself to death. And, coward that he was, he did not have the courage to bleed himself out or cut off his own head. (He was also not certain that the latter was even possible.)

He tried not to dwell on how many human lives he had taken, but despite himself, his mind tallied them up at least once a day.

On the night he encountered Benny, he had tracked a drunkard into a cemetery. After determining that no one else was around, Castiel shoved the human against one of the tombs and sank his teeth into the person’s neck. The man yelped, but he succumbed without much effort on Castiel’s part. After the man had been drained, his body sank to the ground.

An ominous voice behind him commanded, “Turn around, brother.”

Castiel obeyed.

“Another night, another monster,” the newcomer intoned. “You were feeding, weren’t you?” Castiel nodded, eyes wide. This man must be a vampire hunter. Castiel had heard of such people, but having never met one in the flesh, he had regarded them as myths. This vampire hunter must be skilled at his craft, for Castiel had not noticed his approach. “You don’t deny it?”

“Why should I?” Castiel rasped. “It is the truth.”

The man raised a sword to Castiel’s neck. “Any last words, brother?” Castiel shook his head, and the man stared at him. “You’re not going to fight me?”

“Why should I?” Castiel repeated.

“Everyone fights me.”

Castiel inclined his head. “Well, I suppose I am the exception. Honestly, I am grateful.”

“Grateful?”

“My only regret is that I am not strong enough to do it myself.” Blessedly, finally, Castiel had been given a reprieve. He had no wish to continue in this unholy existence, constantly defiling himself and the world. And now, a boon had been granted him—here was someone who would gift Castiel with death.

The man continued to gape at him, and Castiel placed a hand on the blade, drawing it closer to the base of his neck until it grazed his skin. “Do it,” he urged.

Instead, the man sheathed his sword and extended a hand. “Benny,” he announced.

Castiel accepted the hand and articulated, “My name is Castiel,” confusion etching his voice.

Benny retracted his hand and bared his teeth, which morphed into fangs.

“You are one, too,” Castiel marveled.

“Yes. I bear the curse as well.”

“Then—what—why—what?” Castiel spluttered, unable to gather his words into something coherent.

“Our kind—we are nothing but murderers. We cannot help it; it is in our nature. But humans, I—I am fighting a plague that threatens to decimate them.”

“But what about you? You must feed, or you would be—” _Dead_ , Castiel didn’t say.

“Right. I am not proud of what I am, but I can use it.”

“Use it?”

“Yes.” Benny wrapped a hand around Castiel’s wrist. “Come with me.”

Something about the touch arrested Castiel. “Why? I told you to kill me.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t.” Castiel must have looked puzzled, for he elaborated, “Like me, you're not proud. You despise the taint inside you. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Castiel breathed

“Then come with me.” Benny tugged at his wrist, and Castiel complied. Benny guided him to a large mansion, explaining that it had belonged to him since before he was turned. Castiel was curious about how Benny had been turned, and why he was different, like Castiel, but those questions were too intimate to ask when they’d just met.

Over the coming days, Benny educated Castiel about his methods. He informed Castiel that animal blood could nourish them, that human blood wasn’t required. That he did occasionally feed on humans, but only on known criminals. Not petty thieves and the like, he stipulated, but rapists, murderers, that sort. Ridding the world of those individuals did everyone a favor, Benny theorized.

And yes, he hunted vampires. Not only to save humans from death, but to save them from becoming unholy creatures like himself and Castiel.

“What do you say, Castiel?” Benny asked him one night. “Will you join me?”

“Yes,” Castiel answered. “I would very much like to join you.”

Benny smiled, and Castiel felt himself grinning back. Benny shook Castiel’s hand and said, “Glad to have you with me, brother.”

Castiel was glad to have Benny as well, for he now had a purpose, and it was good.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Over the next week, a fragile quiet settles between Dean and Sam. Everything about Sam, his eyes, his demeanor, his tone, accuses Dean of lying, as if he can see right through his older brother. Often, desire for Cas permeates Dean’s dreams, an intangibility about him wrenching at Dean, and he feels uneasy without Cas, as if he’s lost something.

But why? Cas is a creature, a _vampire_. He’d even cautioned Dean about himself, that veiled reference after his nightmare, when he’d thrashed and yelled in his sleep.

Had that been what Cas's dream was about? Acting like a vampire? Becoming a vampire?

Despite himself, he’s intrigued. How had Cas become a vampire? Why?

The secrets start to wear at Dean, and Sam’s knowing gaze certainly isn’t helping.

So, one night, he spills the beans.

One of them, anyway.

“Sam?” Dean begins. “Can I tell you something?”

Sam mutes the episode of _Ghost Hunters_ he’s watching and turns to Dean with earnest eyes. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Dean stares at the fabric of the couch, picking at the red threads. “No one else can know.”

“Okay.”

Dean can’t meet Sam’s eyes, so he focuses on his brother’s shoulder. “I lied.”

“About?”

“I do remember everything, okay? Or a lot of it, at least.”

Dean chances a glance at Sam in time to notice his brother raising an eyebrow. “About when you were missing.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Sam spouts.

Dean finally meets his eyes. “Because. Cas doesn’t want anyone to know about him. Where he lives, who he is, nada.”

“That’s the name of the person who took care of you? Cas?”

“Castiel,” Dean clarifies.

“What kind of name is that?”

Dean chuckles. “Hell if I know.”

“So what if this guy—Castiel—doesn’t want you talkin’ about him? The cops need to know about it.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you were gone for three weeks!”

Dean shrugs. “He saved my life,” Dean says softly, “and I respect his wishes. He deserves it, after what he did.”

Sam hops off the sofa and returns with a computer, which he opens and sets on his lap. “What’re you doin’?” Dean asks.

“Gonna Google this Castiel,” Sam mutters. “It’s not a common name. He shouldn’t be that hard to find.”

Actually, he probably will be difficult to find since he lives in seclusion. Dean doesn’t even know how old Castiel is. The thought makes Dean dizzy.

As he browses the results, Sam’s countenance lights up, but eventually he sighs and mumbles, “Useless.”

“What’d ya find?” Dean asks, curiosity catching hold of him.

“Nothin’ much. Apparently there’s some angel called Castiel, the angel of Thursday. The name means something like ‘my cover is God’ or ‘shield of God.’”

“Oh.” Sam’s right. That doesn’t illuminate anything about Castiel.

“The only other reference I see is to some French nobleman, Castiel Le Ange.” Sam shudders. “Well, this is weird.”

“What?” Goosebumps prickle Dean’s neck. _Weird_. Sounds ominous.

“He disappeared in 1787. There were rumors about him being a murderer or dabbling in black magic. The same day he went missing, a servant at the Le Ange property said she discovered a girl’s bloody corpse in a bedchamber, but she was declared insane soon after.”

“That’s him,” Dean breathes.

Sam gawks at him. “What?”

He let it slip out; he might as well explain. He trusts Sam. “That’s my Castiel.” He blushes at his word choice. _My Castiel_. No, that’s all wrong.

“Dude, this guy was born in 1765. No way he’s ‘your Castiel.’” Dean feels the color draining from his face, and Sam frowns. “What is it?”

“He’s a vampire, Sam.”

Sam guffaws, but when he notices the steely expression on Dean’s face, he abruptly stops. “That’s crazy, Dean. Are you sure nothing happened to your head?”

“I’m sure,” Dean answers as he snatches the computer from Sam.

“Hey!” Sam grabs at the computer, but Dean swats his hand away.

“I wanna read more about him,” Dean declares.

Sam stands up. “This is too fucked up.” Dean doesn’t look at Sam as he leaves the room, afraid to see the disbelief, the _mistrust_ , that Sam must be directing at him.

Dean scrolls through the webpage.

As Sam mentioned, Castiel Le Ange was born in 1765, and he had four older siblings. He attended the Sorbonne and planned to become a priest, but he vanished before he could take his vows.

1765\. That makes Cas, what, almost two hundred fifty years old?

Holy shit.

When Cas went missing, so did two of his brother Uriel’s guests, Anna and Michael Milton. Apparently feminists today still study Anna Milton’s essays, a few even comparing her to the contemporaneous Mary Wollstonecraft. Michael Milton painted, but art historians view him as a mediocre example of the period. The Miltons resurfaced in 1796 in London. When questioned about Castiel, they claimed not to know anything of his whereabouts. As for themselves, they remarked, they had been living in Paris the whole time, fascinated by the Revolution.

1787\. Was that when Castiel had been turned? God, he would’ve been only twenty-two. Ten years younger than Dean.

“Cas. What happened?” he whispers to himself. A tenderness encapsulates his heart, and forget Cas, what the fuck is happening to _him_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is welcome!


	9. Bleeding Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major warning for this chapter. It contains rape and torture. When I started this story, I had no idea it would include rape. To reflect this development, I've added the warning in the tags. Writing the darker parts of this chapter was quite emotional for me.
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from an Imagine Dragons song.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and feedback is welcome!

Over the past two weeks, Castiel has almost given up hope of spotting Alastair or any of his brood. One more body has been discovered since Dean left him, and Castiel is afraid he will never be able to stop Alastair’s reign of violence.

Then one night, he sees her.

Meg.

Who knows when he will receive his next chance? He steps out of his car and follows her until she strolls into a small church.

A recently abandoned one. Castiel has seen cars parked here on Sundays, but now a for-lease sign adorns the yard.

Once Meg is inside, Castiel tiptoes to the entrance and peers in. Only Meg, and he knows he can evade her. If he sneaks in, maybe he can scope out the place, figure out whether it is Alastair’s new hideout.

It’s a risky idea, and probably foolish, but this is the only clue he’s found for some time.

He pushes into the building, ensuring the door doesn’t make a sound. He smothers himself against the wall, creeping along when—

A light switches on, illuminating the wooden pews, the altar, the ceiling—

And Castiel.

Four pairs of eyes stare back at him.

Meg. Azazel. Gordon.

Alastair, his smile feral.

“See?” Meg smirks. “I told you he’d fall for it.”

This is a trap. Of course it’s a trap. How could he have been so stupid?

“Well well well,” Alastair drawls as he snakes toward Castiel, who shrinks against the wall, wishing he could melt into it. “I thought you were smarter than this, Castiel, but I suppose I was wrong.” He turns to Meg, who glows under his approving gaze. “You will receive your reward.”

Her eyes shine with anticipation. “Do I get to play with him?”

“After me, sweet child.” Alastair’s eyes bore into Castiel’s. “He is quite the pretty one, isn’t he?”

Meg licks her lips. “Pretty,” she echoes.

Alastair kicks at Castiel’s knees. His legs crumple underneath him, his body toppling soon after. Alastair grips his wrists and slams them into the wall. He leans into Castiel until their noses touch. “Let’s play a game, shall we? I call it, Destroy the Pretty Boy.” Puffs of Alastair’s breath brush against Castiel’s skin, and a wave of revulsion courses through him. “I dedicate this round to poor Lilith, who is not here because of you.”

“She would have killed me,” Castiel points out.

Alastair snickers. “You’re going to wish she had.” Alastair shoves his lips onto Castiel’s, and he feels faint. When Alastair pulls back after much too long, he draws out a knife and cuts ribbons into Castiel’s trenchcoat, the scraps piling up on the floor.

“Wanna give me a hand?” Alastair calls to the others. They approach, each one flourishing a blade. In little more than a second, all four of them have swiped at his clothes until they are in tatters.

“Get back,” Alastair commands, his voice exalted. “He’s mine for now.”

“Can we watch?” Meg asks.

“Of course.”

Cruel eyes rake over Castiel, and sheer terror overwhelms him. Alastair jerks Castiel away from the wall and shunts him onto his stomach. He feels Alastair crouching behind him, and—

Oh, God.

He knows what Alastair plans to do.

He could fight back, but then it would be four against one. He’s guaranteed to lose, and a struggle would incense Alastair even further.

“No,” he begs, a desperate plea he knows is useless before it passes through his lips. “Please.”

Alastair merely laughs in response. He pries Castiel’s legs apart and yanks down what remains of his pants. There's the snip of Alastair unzipping his slacks, and Castiel feels something wet on the tip of his anus.

Alastair plunges his entire length into Castiel.

Castiel screams.

Screams and screams and screams.

“Shut up!” Alastair snaps as he clamps a hand over Castiel’s mouth.

With his other hand, Alastair pins Castiel’s neck to the ground so that Castiel cannot move his head even a fraction of an inch.

As Alastair begins to thrust, Castiel can feel his flesh tearing. It has been over thirty years since he has engaged in sexual intercourse, and his insides cannot tolerate the pressure.

“So tight, pretty boy,” Alastair purrs.

It burns, and blood drips down Castiel’s thighs. He scrabbles for something to hold on to, and his fingernails dig into the floorboards until they crack and bleed.

Alastair’s hand strokes from Castiel’s neck to his right cheek. His hand lingers there, pressing the other half of Castiel’s face into the wooden slats. An indentation brands itself onto Castiel’s cheek.

Above him, Meg, Azazel, and Gordon giggle in glee.

That they are viewing the spectacle, enjoying it, evokes shame. Why the indignity should matter as much as the pain puzzles Castiel.

Something wraps around Castiel’s penis.

Alastair’s hand.

“I want you to come for me, pretty boy,” Alastair proclaims. He runs a fingertip over Castiel’s shaft, and dammit, despite himself, he is growing hard. He has never cursed his heightened libido more than he does now.

“Fuck you,” Castiel attempts to spit, but instead the words come out in a pitiful whine.

“No, boy, _I’m fucking you_!”

The nauseating sound of Alastair’s skin slapping against his reverberates throughout the room. Alastair jerks him off, hand proceeding at a frantic space.

“Come for me, Castiel,” Alastair jeers.

And damn him, he does.

Semen coats the floor underneath his cock, and he winces at the squish when Alastair clenches his hand into a fist. Alastair smears the white liquid over Castiel’s mouth and laughs. “Better not wipe that off,” he warns.

Castiel shivers in his aftershock, but Alastair is relentless, pounding faster and deeper, and he is ripping Castiel _apart_ —

Alastair spills into him with a grunt then crushes himself over Castiel’s collapsed body, keeping himself seated inside. He places a thumb to Castiel’s lips and demands, “Taste.” Castiel firmly clamps his lips shut. Alastair plants a hand in his hair, forcing his head so far back it feels as if it will snap off, and wrests his lips open, darting a thumb between them to prod his tongue. Castiel tastes a mixture of blood and Alastair’s ejaculate.

His vision blurs, and the tear tracks on his cheeks stick to his skin like droplets of blood.

Time passes, each second excruciating.

Eventually, Alastair releases his grip on Castiel, pulls out, and stands up. He leers down at Castiel. “Now. _That’s_ what I like,” he declares. He retrieves his knife and waves it in front of Castiel before turning to Meg. “Care to join me, sweetheart?”

She grins, her face blossoming as if she’s a little girl who’s been given her heart’s desire. “I would _love_ to.”

They slice at his skin, and in an effort to block everything out, Castiel burrows into his mind.

**Prentiss Island, Washington Territory, 1872**

Castiel and Benny spent ten years extinguishing the vampires in New Orleans. Castiel discovered that Benny had a wife named Andrea and that she had been kidnapped and turned by the same vampire who had cursed Benny.

“I don’t even know his name,” Benny seethed.

Castiel was sexually attracted to Benny, and he discerned that Benny desired him, too. However, Benny was saving himself for Andrea, who he was determined to find. Castiel understood, and if he were not an unholy thing, he never would have lusted after Benny in the first place, for he did not harbor romantic feelings for the other vampire. He loved Benny as a friend, nothing more.

It took them almost sixty years, but they did discover Andrea’s whereabouts.

After finishing their work in New Orleans, Castiel and Benny began touring the country, ridding the world of any monsters or vile humans they came across.

In 1872, they entered Washington Territory, where they stumbled upon a group of vampires working as pirates.

The leader of this nest was Benny’s maker.

And Andrea lived amongst them.

Castiel and Benny watched the nest for several days, cataloging every detail they could use to their advantage. Attempting to fight the entire group would have resulted in certain defeat, so they waited until many of the vampires had boarded a boat. A few of them had remained behind, including Andrea and Benny’s maker.

Once inside the maker’s headquarters, Castiel and Benny split up. Castiel was to fetch Andrea while Benny eliminated the nest leader.

When Castiel found Andrea, she drew a sword and ordered him to stay back and tell her his name. He did so without hesitation and explained that Benny had come to rescue her. They raced to the leader’s office, where the maker had secured the advantage in the fight with Benny. With one smooth stroke, Andrea severed the leader’s head from his body.

When Benny’s eyes met Andrea’s, his face lit up. They embraced, and after their tearful reunion, Andrea proposed that they take over the pirate operation.

“Think of how much we could accomplish together!” Andrea enthused. “Your friend can join us if he wants.” She turned to Castiel and asked, “What did you say your name was?”

“Castiel.”

“Yes. We could run things together, the three of us.”

Benny frowned. From their observations, he and Castiel understood what the enterprise entailed. Attacking ships and stealing property. More disconcerting, harvesting the passengers for feeding orgies.

“Why don’t we just leave?” Benny suggested.

She gestured at the richly decorated office around them. “Why should we, when we could have all this? We’ll be the ones running things. It’s paradise.”

“But we would be preying on people.”

“So?” Andrea scoffed. “We are the superior species. We can take whatever we want. That’s what makes us special.”

Castiel didn’t know what Andrea had been like as a human, but as a vampire, she resembled Anna and Michael Milton. The reminder triggered flashbacks to his days with them, when they’d tortured innocent humans and Castiel had enjoyed it.

He burned with shame.

He would not partake in such activities. Never again.

But what would Benny want to do? Under normal circumstances, the idea would repulse Benny, but he loved Andrea.

Castiel had never loved someone, not in that way. He probably never would, and the thought saddened him.

“No, thank you,” Castiel said. He awaited Benny’s answer.

“I don’t think so, Andrea,” Benny concluded. “Come with us. This lifestyle isn't right.”

“Don’t be such a lily-livered sap, Benny!” Andrea hissed. Benny merely stared at her. “Fine. If you wish, go. But _I’m_ staying here.”

“I’m sorry, my love,” Benny whispered before lopping off her head. Castiel flinched, and Benny burst into sobs.

“We should go,” Castiel pointed out.

Benny turned agonized eyes to him. “You go. But do me a favor first. Kill me. Please.”

“No.”

“Then just leave me.”

“They’ll kill you when they return.”

Benny laughed mirthlessly. “I know, brother.”

“Come,” Castiel urged, snatching at Benny’s hand. “I will _not_ leave you behind.” He dragged Benny out of the edifice.

Later, he wondered whether he had acted out of selfishness. Without Benny, he would have been completely alone.

When the other vampires returned, Castiel and Benny tackled them then set fire to their dwelling. For a long time, they sat on the bed side by side and viewed the blaze from their cabin until Castiel’s voice cut through the silence.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel commiserated.

Benny shrugged. “Me, too.” He looked at Castiel with an inscrutable expression and reached a hand up to cup Castiel’s cheek. “But at least I’ve got you, brother.” A questioning lilt infused his cracking voice.

Castiel’s heart hurt for his friend. He wrapped a hand around Benny’s wrist. “Yes,” he assured Benny.

Benny planted his lips on Castiel’s, and Castiel tasted the desperation in the kiss. He returned it with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. If Benny needed this comfort from him, he would gladly provide it.

They stripped frantically, their limbs entangling. Benny prepped him carefully but was rough once inside him.

Afterward, when they lay in a post-coital haze, Castiel realized how much he had missed sex. Jerking himself off did not compare.

But he felt dirty. Perhaps he should have told Benny no. He hoped Benny would not regret it, that he would not think lesser of Castiel.

Not that he deserved even an ounce of Benny’s regard.

xxxxxxxxxx

Two and a half weeks after Dean’s return, Victor finally allowed him back on duty. Though he had never “recovered” his memories with Kevin (yeah, they did eventually wind up on a first-name basis, and so what, the dude’s actually kind of cool), he had made great progress. Or so Kevin had declared. He told Victor he believed Dean needed to work to continue improving, and damn straight, Kevin _gets_ him.

The night of Dean’s reinstatement, he and his colleagues celebrate at the Roadhouse. Sam comes, too. Dean’s relationship with his brother is strained; he knows Sam thinks he’s crazy. He never should’ve told him about Cas, but you can’t change the past, so no use dwelling on it. At least Sam never mentioned Dean’s secrets to anyone else.

Dean basks in the gathering. The Roadhouse is like his third home (after the house he shares with Sam and the police station), and he’s missed this place. He’s fortunate to have this, all these people.

He wishes Cas was here to complete the picture.

_Dumbass. You think Cas thinks about you as much as you think about him? You’re pathetic._

Everyone is scattered throughout the establishment, and Dean sits alone at the bar. He’s studying the liquid in his glass when someone bops him on the head.

“Ow!” he exclaims. He looks up to see Ellen glaring down at him.

“What took you so long? I’ve been worried about you, boy.”

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles.

“How’re you holdin’ up?” Dean shrugs. “If you ever need anythin’, I’m here.”

“I know.” The Harvelles had been close friends with Dean’s parents since before he can remember, and Ellen took on the role of occasional surrogate mother after John and Mary Winchester had perished in the fire.

“Don’t you forget it. If you _ever_ do that to me again—”

“Mom, leave him alone,” Jo cuts in as she plops down in the seat next to Dean. She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I haven’t been giving you constant updates.”

“Don’t mean the boy can’t call me himself.” She notices a few customers without drinks and leaves to serve them.

“Sorry ’bout her,” Jo says.

“’S okay.” Ellen is right, after all. He should have called her. He would have if he hadn’t been so self-absorbed.

“What’re you doin’ over here all by your lonesome, anyway? You’re the star of the show.” She eyes the long table where his closest colleagues are sitting, though a few have ensconced themselves in nooks and corners. Sam is flirting with Sarah at a booth for two, and there’s Kevin by himself—

Wait a minute, why is Kevin alone? The guy may be new, but he’s awesome.

Jo tugs at the fabric of his shirt. “C’mon.” He follows her for a second, but when she seats herself at the large table, he veers over to Kevin.

“Hey,” Dean says to him.

Kevin’s eyebrows climb up in surprise. “Hi,” he replies, sounding as if he’s confused about why Dean’s talking to him.

“Why’re you over here by yourself?” Kevin shrugs and looks embarrassed. Dean realizes that, despite his assertiveness during their sessions, Kevin is actually rather shy.

Dean glances at the others then looks back at Kevin. “Why don’t we join everyone else?” Kevin grabs his drink and accompanies Dean to the big table. “Got room for two more?” Dean says.

Victor observes, “There’s only one more chair.”

Kevin’s face falls. “Oh. That’s fine. I’ll just go back over there.” He takes a step toward his previous table.

Bobby grabs his arm and jerks him back. “Shut up, ya idjit. We can always pull up another.”

“Damn right.” Dean sits down in the unoccupied chair and scoots over to the right. “Make room for Kevin, guys.” Jo scowls at him. “And gals,” he adds. He’s lucky Charlie’s off chatting up some girl or she would’ve slapped Dean for his oversight.

Chuck brings over a chair for Kevin and places it between Dean and Bobby. When Chuck resumes his position on the other side of Dean, Kevin takes a seat and shoots Dean a thousand-watt grin. He appears a bit intimidated by Bobby. Frankly, Dean doesn’t blame him; Bobby can have a gruff exterior, but underneath he’s a giant teddy bear, as Kevin will soon learn.

He’ll grow into the precinct family. Dean smiles at the thought.

“So, you haven’t been in town that long, right?” Garth asks Kevin.

Kevin shakes his head. “No. I, well, I got my doctorate only a couple months ago. This is my first job.”

“Welcome!” Garth enthuses. “Why didn’t we throw him a party?” Good question. A party is customary.

“We had other concerns,” Victor explains. “Catching that killer. And of course, Dean was missing.” Dean reddens, hating that Victor is using him as an excuse for neglecting to welcome Kevin appropriately.

“We could’ve still had a party,” Garth maintains.

“Yeah,” Chuck echoes. “Please accept our apologies.”

“I don’t mind,” Kevin says.

“Hey, this can be Kevin’s party,” Dean decides.

“No, it’s yours,” Kevin objects.

“It’s both of ours.” He raises his glass. “How ’bout a toast to Kevin?” Victor, Garth, Chuck, Jo, and Bobby clink their glasses against Dean’s.

Afterward, Kevin lifts his own glass. “Let’s toast to Dean, too.” He looks bashful, as if he’s afraid of the attention he’s receiving, but he’s also happy. Dean can tell.

“To Dean!” the others yell as they press their glasses to Kevin’s.

They dive into their drinks and talk about all kinds of shit. After a while, Dean excuses himself to take a piss. When he steps out of the bathroom, he runs into a familiar face.

“Lisa,” he utters.

She looks puzzled for a minute then offers him a small smile. “Hi, Dean.” Lisa and he had broken up last year, and he still occasionally misses her. Honestly, though, he misses Ben more than her, but since they are no longer together, Lisa doesn’t like him seeing her son.

“Hi,” Dean repeats.

“I heard about you on the news.” She frowns. “But they said you weren’t hurt that bad.” She blushes. “Sorry. It’s just your face. It’s so . . . ”

“Different, I know.” _Ugly_. _I bet you’re glad to be rid of me._

“Yeah.”

“Well, nice seein’ you ’round.”

“Ditto.” She walks back to her table, where she joins a man Dean doesn’t know. Her boyfriend, Dean guesses.

She’s freakin’ hot. Dean never fails to appreciate that, but this time his lust for her is muted, overshadowed by desire for a man with bluer-than-blue eyes.

 _Fuckin’ hell_.

When he returns to the table, Charlie is standing beside it with that woman she’s been talking to all night. “Hey, everyone,” she says. “This is Gilda. We’re leavin’. See you tomorrow?”

“Okay,” Victor replies. Dean gives Charlie a knowing look, and she glowers back at him.

“Good night,” Charlie tells them.

“Good night,” the individuals around the table chant in unison.

Yeah, Dean reflects as the conversation picks up again, he friggin’ _loves_ that he gets to work with these people.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel will die soon.

He has come to terms with this fact. Sometimes, he wonders why he isn’t dead yet, how much more his body can take. A week has already passed, or so he thinks. He cannot be sure; his faculties have grown murky.

But Alastair is determined to wring the life out of Castiel slowly. To destroy him not only in body, but in soul. (Does he even possess a soul, unholy creature that he is?)

Alastair is sadistic, more so than Castiel had imagined possible, and he has witnessed much cruelty over his years.

Alastair and his nest members take turns carving into him, laughing as they flay him. They drink his blood, a blasphemy. Drinking another vampire’s blood is intimate, akin to performing a sexual act with the other party. Castiel has not heard of many people doing it. Most vampires are too unsure about the properties of others’ blood to try it, for another legend stipulates that drinking another vampire’s blood brings one a deadly sickness.

A sickness no doubt more pleasant than what Alastair is doing to him.

The rumor about sickness is untrue, however, and Alastair’s brood seems more vibrant than ever before. Or perhaps he is merely waning.

It has been too long since he fed, and his appetite has grown ravenous. It only adds to the pain.

Alastair forces himself onto Castiel so many times that he loses count. Alastair never allows the others the “privilege,” and they treat his decision as if it is the word of God.

Sometimes Alastair is rough, and sometimes he is gentle. Castiel prefers the former because it’s not a lie.

He makes Castiel suck him off.

At one point, he gives Castiel a blowjob, chortling as Castiel comes against his will.

He always ensures Castiel comes before himself, smirking each time it happens.

Periodically, he coos nothings into Castiel’s ear, whispers, “You know you’re enjoying this.”

Despite his traitorous body, Castiel really isn’t.

Once, when Castiel feels as if he can endure no more, he pretends as if Alastair is a police officer with green eyes.

 _Dean_.

“So _that’s_ why you saved him!” Alastair cackles.

What? Had he said Dean’s name aloud? He thought he’d lost his voice. Castiel tries to shake his head, but his neck hurts too much.

After that, he vows never to think of Dean again. He will not let Alastair see that part of him.

Alastair presses Castiel’s tattered clothes into his bloody wounds until they stick to his body. The fabric chafes against his mutilated skin.

Why isn’t he dead yet? How much more blood does he have?

When Alastair drains everything out of him, his suffering will finally cease.

xxxxxxxxxx

Three days after Dean returns to duty, a useful tip finally comes in.

Someone has spotted a man at the recently vacated Pontiac Baptist Church, and he matches Dean’s description to a T.

Victor gathers Jo, Bobby, Garth, and Chuck and informs the station of their imminent departure. While the five officers grab their supplies, Jo tells Dean about where they are going.

Dean bolts to his feet and asserts, “I’m coming, too.”

“But Victor didn’t ask for you,” Jo counters.

“I don’t care. I wanna get that bastard.”

Victor appears beside Dean and opines, “I can’t let you go. You’re too close to this.”

“That’s _why_ I need to go!” Dean shouts.

“I think we should bring him,” Jo chimes in. “It’s only right.”

“Fine,” Victor snaps before stepping away from them. Victor had not been swayed by Jo’s argument, Dean knew, but he probably understood that Dean would show up at the location with or without permission.

Still, at least Jo’s got his back.

“Thanks,” he murmurs to her.

“I would want to come, too.”

Dean and Jo meet the others at the entrance, and they take three cruisers to the scene.


	10. Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of and a nightmare about rape.

The world eddies around Castiel. Three individuals loom above him, but he can identify them only by their voices. He cannot discern what they are saying, and he is not sure if he wants to. It’s too difficult.

But a loud sound pierces through it all. Deafening sirens coming closer and closer. He wishes they would shut up; his ears feel as if they are going to explode.

One of the three figures above him begins to speak, and Castiel strains to understand the words; he has a vague notion that he might want to know what they are.

“Damn cops!” Meg hisses.

“We need to go,” Alastair says.

“Fuck that,” Gordon puts in. “We can take them.”

Footsteps recede and return. “Of course we can,” Alastair responds, “but there are quite a few of them. Not like last time, when it was just Winchester.”

“So? Ya scared, boss?”

Castiel can imagine the scathing look Alastair gives Gordon. “No. But we wouldn’t want to attract undue attention from hunters, now would we? A bloodbath involving police officers would do just that.”

“And you think we can’t take on a bunch of hunters?”

“Depends on how many there are. I’d rather not invite the inconvenience if I don’t have to. Grab your shit, and let’s go.”

“What about him?” Meg asks.

“Castiel? Not worth it. He’s good as dead.”

Footsteps from all directions storm across the wooden floor. Why can’t the world just be quiet?

xxxxxxxxxxxx

When the police arrive at the church, three people run out of the building into the inky blackness of night, each choosing a different direction. One of them is unmistakably the guy who attacked Dean. Why the fuck would those two others be with him? Is there a group of serial killers working together? But all the bodies they’ve found bore the M.O. of one distinct person.

Jo and Dean stride into the building while Victor, Bobby, Garth, and Chuck chase after the fleeing parties. Dean recognizes the body on the floor.

_Cas?!_

“Oh, my God!” Jo gasps when she sees Castiel.

“I’ll get him to the hospital,” Dean says. “You take a look around. Okay?”

“All right, Winchester.”

Obviously, Dean can’t actually drop Castiel off at the hospital since his body doesn’t operate like a normal person’s. But no one has to know that, and he’s gotta get Cas outta here. Thank God his arm is no longer broken.

Dean picks Castiel up, supporting his neck with one hand and his knees with the other. His eyes are glassy, and _no please God don’t let him be dead._

Dean lays Cas down in the backseat of the police cruiser and puts an ear to Castiel’s lips. Do vampires even breathe? Castiel seems to be taking laborious breaths, so Dean assumes they do.

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice is softer than a whisper, but Dean hears him all the same.

Dean tries to smile. “Yeah, it’s me, buddy. Don’t worry. We’ll fix ya.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I think . . . I—I . . . any minute now . . . ”

“What?”

“Too much blood . . . almost gone . . . ”

Realization slams into Dean. Who knows how long it’s been since Castiel has drunk any blood? And he’s lost a lot of the stuff . . . dried blood is painted against the vast majority of his skin. Once it’s all gone—

Without thought, Dean acts. He proffers his neck to Castiel and growls, “Take it.”

“No.”

He turns to face Cas, fixing him with his most authoritative gaze. “Yes.”

“Just . . . let me die. P . . . p—please?”

He presses the side of his neck to Cas’s lips. “ _Take it._ ”

“It’ll . . . hurt you,” Cas wheezes. Damn, he’s almost gone.

“ _Do it_ ,” Dean snarls.

Something sharp stabs into his neck, and Dean is surprised that he feels no pain, only a contented languor. He melts into it, wanting nothing but for Cas to take it _all_ —

But then he would die, and he’s not ready for that, thanks.

When he feels as if he’s about to lose consciousness, he has to pry himself away from Cas. Cas’s lips dart to Dean’s neck, and Dean has to push Cas off of him. There’s a wild glint in Cas’s eyes, animalistic, and Dean shivers, though not in fear. “Whoa, dude. That’s enough,” Dean declares. He crawls out of the vehicle and moves to the driver’s seat. He has to leave before the others come back, or they’ll have too many questions. Dean starts the car and races onto the road.

“Where are we going?” Castiel pants from the backseat.

“My house,” Dean answers.

Neither of them say anything else while Dean navigates the streets. When Dean pulls into the driveway, he glances back and, through the grille, notices that Castiel has passed out. He bounds out of the car and scoops Castiel up, dashing into the house. He whizzes past Sam, who mutters, “What the hell?” Dean ignores his brother until he reaches the guest bedroom, where he gently lays Castiel onto the bed. He’ll bloody up the sheets, but oh, well. That hardly matters, though Sam will probably bitch about it.

Sam materializes in the doorway and demands, “What’s going on, Dean?” He squints at Dean for a minute then adds, “What happened to your neck?”

Dean clamps a hand over the bite, and it comes away bloody. He jogs to the bathroom and studies himself in the mirror. Oddly, his shirt hasn’t been stained. He rummages around in the medicine cabinet until he discovers a large piece of gauze, which he affixes to the mark on his neck. When he returns to the guest bedroom, Sam is staring at Cas with horrified eyes. “Dean,” he inquires, “who’s this?”

“Castiel,” Dean informs him.

“Castiel? The guy who . . . ”

“Yeah.” 

Sam continues to examine Castiel. His eyes flick from Castiel’s blood-drenched lips to Dean, and he says, “No fuckin’ _way_ —”

“Way,” Dean mumbles. It’s almost amusing to watch his brother process the fact that, yeah, _vampire_ here.

“He bit you, Dean!” Sam shouts, his tone panicked. “You wanna bring him to our house and—”

“I made him do it.”

“What?”

“Bite me.”

“What the hell, Dean!”

“He was dying, Sam.”

“So?”

“So?” God, sometimes Sam can be such an idiot. “He saved my life, dude.”

“But he’s a _monster_ —”

“No, he’s not,” Dean snaps. Okay, maybe Cas had been torturing some sap the night Dean had run away from his cabin, but if he is to be believed (and Dean is inclined to believe Cas), the guy was a serial rapist. He could see himself behaving in a similar fashion if he were a vampire.

Whoever had done this to Cas and attacked Dean . . . that’s the real monster.

“What happened to him?” Sam inquires after a few minutes of silence.

Dean sighs. “We got a tip about the man who did this.” Dean waves a hand at his face, and Sam nods. “He was at the old Pontiac Baptist Church with two other people.” Sam furrows his brows in confusion, and Dean huffs, “Yeah, I know. A group of serial killers working together? That’s fucked up. Anyway, when we got there, Cas was laying on the floor of the church, almost dead.” The last word comes out in a whisper, as if Dean is afraid uttering it will tempt fate. He shrugs. “He needed blood, so I gave it to him.”

“Oh.” Sam pauses, and tension fills the room. “Sorry,” Sam eventually says, “I’m just trying to wrap my head around all this.”

“Of course, man. It’s freakin’ weird.”

“What’re you gonna tell the others?”

“Who?”

“Your colleagues.”

“I dunno. I’ll think of something. I told Jo I was taking him to the hospital.” Sam nods. “I’ll just say he’s too hurt to give us any useful information.”

“What if they check up on your story?”

“Don’t be so paranoid, Sam.” Dean narrows his eyes at him. “You’ll keep this to yourself, right?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dean.” He sounds insulted, and Dean guesses that’s fair.

“Okay. So. He’s gonna need some blood when he wakes up.”

“That’s your problem, Dean.”

“What?”

Sam shrugs. “He’s your vampire. You take care of him.”

“He’s not _my_ vampire.” _I wish he was. Shut up_. Sam glowers at him, and Dean continues, “Whatever. Fine. Can you get some medical supplies at least?”

“Sure.”

Sam exits the room, and now that Dean is alone with Castiel, he takes stock of Castiel’s appearance. Blood mats his hair. Splotches of it coat his face, and swirls of the stuff decorate his limbs and his stomach. Clumps of it stick to his tattered clothes. Dean cringes as he imagines the pain Castiel must’ve endured, the slashes that no doubt lie underneath the blood.

Cas needs to be cleaned up, and he requires a change of clothes. Dean ponders whether or not he should wait for Castiel to wake up to ask for permission, but he concludes that Cas won’t mind if Dean tends to him. After all, he did change Dean’s frickin’ clothes for him, so why wouldn’t Cas let Dean return the favor?

Dean patters to the bathroom, moistens a couple of worn-out towels, and carries them back to the bedroom. He digs around in his dresser drawers until he finds a blue plaid button-down and gray sweatpants, both items that should be easy enough to outfit Cas with. After placing everything at the foot of the bed, he peels off Cas’s ruined clothes and tosses them onto the carpet. God, even Cas’s boxers are bloody. He returns to the dresser and grabs a random pair of boxers. When he glances back at Cas, it finally hits him that the dude is naked, and he can’t help blushing. _Let’s get this over with_ , he tells himself.

Dean begins with the lower half of Cas’s body so he can tuck away the guy’s junk ASAP. He scrubs Cas’s calves, working up to his thighs. The blood there is especially thick, and Dean’s almost hyperventilating, dammit, because it’s plainly written on Cas’s body: the bastard _raped_ him. Endlessly. Tears gather in Dean’s eyes.

As far as he recalls, none of the killer’s victims had been raped. That’s something he did only to Cas. He remembers back to his first meeting with Cas, when he’d let slip the name “Al.” Cas and that motherfucker know each other. Everything about Cas’s injuries smacks of a personal vendetta.

Cas has a lot of explainin’ to do once he regains consciousness. Well, heals up a little, anyway. For now, he needs rest.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

After Dean dresses Cas, Sam returns with bandages and antiseptic. Dean applies those to Cas’s worst wounds then tries to figure out how to acquire blood for Cas.

He winds up killing a couple of squirrels in a nearby park. It’s gross, and Dean gags after extracting the blood from the poor animals, but Cas needs the stuff and it’s not like he can go get it for himself at the moment. He fills a glass with blood and places it on the bedside table beside Cas before dragging a chair from the kitchen and setting it at the foot of Cas’s bed.

Dean had almost drifted off when a sharp intake of breath alerts him to a change in Cas’s condition. He watches as Cas’s eyes flutter open, recognition slowly dawning on his face.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says softly.

“Hey,” Dean replies in a low voice. Cas scans the room, and his eyes widen in surprise when he spots the serving of blood. He picks it up and gulps down half of it while Dean tries not to grimace in disgust.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas tells him as he licks a dot of blood from his lips. Dean knows he shouldn’t stare, but the sight mesmerizes him. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“What?”

Cas gestures to himself, the clothes, and the glass. “All of it.”

“Sure I did.”

Cas eyes the wound on Dean’s neck. “Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I wouldn’t have . . . if I hadn’t lost control of myself.”

Dean shrugs. “You needed it, right?” Cas opens his mouth as if to speak, but Dean heads him off. “You were dying, man. I’d do it again, no question.”

“But . . . you know what I am. I’m vile. Unholy.” He fidgets, twisting his fingers together.

“No. I’m sorry for what I said before.”

Cas’s eyes seem to burrow into Dean’s soul, and _damn_ he’s missed that intense stare, though it intimidates him. “Why? You were right.”

“Nah. I was just freaked out.”

Cas taps the side of the glass. “Procuring this must have been difficult. I’m sorry. I shall do it myself henceforth.”

“Just focus on getting well,” Dean urges him.

Cas puts the cup down and glances at the bandages on his body. “That was unnecessary. I shall heal—”

“But—”

“My kind heal quickly,” Cas explains. “As long as we receive enough nutrients.”

“Blood.”

“Yes. And I had almost run out. I owe you a great deal. I thank you, truly.”

Dean is uncomfortable with the heartfelt tone behind Cas’s words. “’Welcome,” he mumbles.

Cas sips from the glass again, and after a few minutes of silence, he asks, “How did you find me?”

“We had a tip about the serial killer. When we went to check it out, you were there.”

“Oh.” Cas chews his lip then mentions, “No doubt you are curious about everything.”

“Um. Yeah. But you don’t have to tell me now. You should probably rest.—”

“His name is Alastair,” Cas begins. Oh, so not “Al.” “He is like me.”

“Huh?”

Cas’s eyes shift to the blanket. “Sorry. I think I have made the bed dirty.”

“’S fine.”

“He is a vampire.”

“Alastair.”

Cas nods. “Yes. All of his victims . . . he’s been harvesting victims for his nest.”

“Nest?”

“There are nine others. Alastair is their leader.”

“Nine _vampires_?!”

“Yes.”

What the fuck? There’ve been at least ten _vampires_ terrorizing town? “We saw two of them at the church.”

“Yes. Meg and Gordon, I believe.”

“You know their names?”

“Indeed. I have been attempting to stop them, but one against ten—eleven, if you count Lilith—”

“Lilith?”

“She was one of Alastair’s vampires. I killed her.”

“Oh.”

“She ambushed me. That’s when I discovered Alastair knew I was hunting him.”

Hunting him? Okay. Strange way of putting it. “So—”

“The night I found you, I was tracking him.”

“Oh.” The serial killer is a friggin’ _vampire_ with a sizable group of sidekicks, and Cas has known all along. This is a lot to take in.

Cas closes his eyes, his long lashes curling onto his cheekbones. Tears seep out of them. “I failed,” Cas whispers. “He’s going to destroy the whole town, and there’s nothing I can do.”

“Hey, now,” Dean mutters, “Nothing’s over yet.”

Cas’s eyes fly open, their blue rimmed with red. “I can’t think about him without shaking, Dean. You don’t know what it was like. He—everything he did to me, with me, it was just a game to him. And he won.” He utters the last three words with a sob.

Dean places a hand on Cas’s shoulder but withdraws it when he flinches at the touch. “You’re still here. We’re still here. That bastard hasn’t won jack.”

“Not yet,” Cas whimpers.

“He won’t.”

“But, Dean. My kind . . . we have powers beyond the capabilities of humans. Your police force is no match for Alastair and his nest. Neither am I.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I wish we could.”

“Don’t think about it now.” Dean notes the predawn light slanting through the blinds. “It’s almost day time. You need me to shut the curtains?”

“That would be nice.”

“The sun’ll kill you?”

“Actually, no. That is a common misconception. But its touch is painful.”

“Oh.” Dean draws the dark green curtains closed then turns back to Cas. “I have to go to the station. You gonna be okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Sam’ll be gone soon, too.”

“Sam? Your brother? He lives here?”

“Yeah. But he won’t bother ya, don’t worry.”

“Is he all right with having me here? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“He’s cool.” True, Sam isn’t exactly enthusiastic about the prospect, but the bitch can deal.

Dean traipses into the living room, where he finds Sam slumped over on the couch, snoozing. He shakes Sam, and his brother grunts in disapproval.

After Sam blinks himself awake, Dean tells him, “I’ve gotta go down to the station. Don’t hassle Cas, all right?”

“You’re leaving him here?” Sam murmurs, sounding annoyed and groggy.

“Yeah. He needs rest, dude.”

Sam flushes. “But . . . what if he tries to bite me?” Dean gives Sam an incredulous look, and Sam stammers, “I mean . . . he is a v-v-vampire, right? Isn’t that what they do?”

“Cas only drinks animal blood.”

Sam scoffs, “So that’s okay, then.”

“Shut up. He can’t help it if he has to drink the stuff to survive.” Sam still appears skeptical, so Dean adds, “He’s not gonna hurt ya, okay? He saved my life, for Christ’s sake. You think he’d do that if he planned on drinking our blood?”

Sam stifles a yawn. “Okay. Whatever. But you’re responsible for him.”

“Sure.” Dean grabs his jacket from his bedroom before heading out the door. When he unlocks the car, he glimpses bloodstains on the backseat. Damn, that shit’s gonna be hard to clean up.

As he drives to the station, Dean reflects on the morning’s conversation with Cas. How he’d barely batted an eyelash when Cas mentioned killing Lilith. Not that she didn’t deserve it if she was in cahoots with that Alastair character, but still. He believes in the law. That’s why he enforces it daily. Due process of law applies to everyone, even murderous vampires. They should be arrested, put on trial, and jailed accordingly. Although this Alastair bastard definitely deserves the death penalty. He’s a sick son of a bitch.

But would the death penalty even work on a vampire? How does a vampire die, anyway? Apparently, sunlight doesn’t kill ’em. Dean should’ve asked Cas when he mentioned killing Lilith.

Dean’s mind spins around the question. Cas had said vampires possess abilities beyond those of humans. If that’s the case, how’re he and his colleagues supposed to capture Alastair and his compatriots? At least Dean’s got some advance warning, but the others don’t, and it’s not like he can tell them. He’d sound insane. Oh, yeah, we’re trying to find a group of serial killers who happen to be vampires. They’d probably put Dean back on leave.

Well, maybe they’d believe him if they actually saw Cas and his fangs, but that would also freak them out. They wouldn’t understand Cas like he does. Cas knows it’s a dangerous secret to let out; no doubt that’s why he didn’t want anyone to discover where he lives. He couldn’t ask that of Cas; the dude’s already been through enough.

Dean pulls into the precinct parking lot and lingers in the cruiser for a minute. What’s he gonna tell everyone? They’ll wonder why he didn’t contact them all night. Okay, he can say it was simply an oversight, but he’s gonna look irresponsible. Better that than the truth, though.

When Dean strolls inside, Jo looks up from her desk, her eyes widening. “Thank God! We were afraid somethin’ might’ve happened to you.” _Again_ , she doesn’t add, but the word’s there all the same.

“Nah. I just had to get that dude to the hospital. It took a while.”

“You should’ve called with an update.”

Dean sighs. “I know. Sorry. I just got caught up in everything.”

Jo nods. “I understand.” She eyes Victor’s office. “Boss’ll probably want to see ya.”

“Yeah.” Dean smiles at Bobby, Garth, and Chuck as he passes them on his way to the back, where he knocks on Victor’s door.

“Come in!” Victor calls. Dean cracks open the door, and Victor motions for him to proceed inside. Oh. Of course. He had urged Dean to come in. “’Bout time,” Victor mutters.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles.

Victor squints at him. “What happened to your neck?”

“Oh, this?” Dean laughs nervously. Victor nods. “It’s stupid, really. I ran into a nail on the wall while I was carrying that dude outta the church.”

“Hmm.” Victor points to a chair in front of the desk. “Sit down.” Once Dean is no longer standing, Victor continues, “What’ve you got for me? Jo said you found a victim and took him to the hospital.”

“Yeah.”

Victor steeples his fingers. “How is he? Have you gleaned any information from him?”

“Nope. He was hurt pretty bad . . . He’s been unconscious the whole time.”

“I see.” Victor rubs at his chin as he ponders the situation. “Shouldn’t you still be there? You’ll need to get his statement once he wakes up.”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No. He didn’t have any ID on him.”

“We’ll need that, too.”

“Of course.”

Victor passes three sheets of paper to Dean. “These are the people we encountered at the church last night.”

Dean studies the sketches. He’s all too familiar with one of the individuals, the guy who attacked him—Alastair. The other man must be Gordon, and the brunette must be Meg. “Did ya catch any of them?”

“Regrettably, no.” Dean had suspected as much, but the news is disheartening nevertheless. “When the victim wakes up, ask him if he recognizes any of them.”

“All right.”

“Now go. I expect an update by this evening.”

“Seriously? That’s it?” Dean can’t believe he’s allowed to leave the station so soon.

“Yes. Although we could send someone else to keep watch at the hospital, if you’d like.”

“No, sir,” Dean supplies a little too quickly, but Victor doesn’t appear to find anything amiss.

Satisfied, Dean drives home. He has a feeling that Cas might need him.

xxxxxxxxxx

After Dean leaves the room, Castiel falls into a fitful sleep. So many things blend together into a chaotic miasma.

It begins in 1981. He and Benny have followed a vampire to Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Her name is Abaddon, and she has left destruction in her wake. They have sparred with many vicious vampires, but in comparison to Abaddon, they were as docile as puppies. Their only advantage is that Abaddon works alone. Castiel cannot imagine the havoc she would wreck if she had a nest at her disposal.

Castiel doesn’t think he and Benny are capable of defeating Abaddon, but Benny begs to differ. Besides, he argues, even if they don’t succeed, they still have to try. They can’t permit Abaddon to continue unchallenged.

For a few days, they observe her from a distance. One night, in the parking lot of a shopping center, she calls them out. They fight her, but she easily disarms them. Castiel and Benny pick up their swords, but she appears unconcerned, chuckling, glorying in what she brags will be her triumph. Benny’s eyes meet Castiel’s over her shoulder, and Castiel suddenly understands what Benny plans to do: act as a diversion while Castiel beheads her. Castiel gives an infinitesimal shake of his head (for he and Benny have mastered nonverbal communication over their years together). He knows he is not fast enough to stop Abaddon before she can slice Benny’s head off.

Abaddon notices Castiel’s headshake and glares at him. “What? What’s he doing?” she asks, whirling around. Benny taunts her, shouting whatever insults come to his head.

Castiel moves as quickly as he can, and Abaddon’s head clatters to the ground. For a second, he believes a miracle has occurred, that he killed her before anything could happen to Benny.

But no. Benny’s body lies on the ground, his severed head an inch above it, his vacant eyes staring up at the sky.

“No,” Castiel sniffs. He falls to his knees and cradles Benny, both body and head, to his chest. How can this be? Just last night, he and Benny had engaged in sex, laughing, savoring each other’s company. He loved—loves—Benny very much. Not like he would a significant other, he knows, but Benny was the closest thing he would ever have to it.

Castiel kisses Benny’s forehead. “I told you I couldn’t do it,” he laments. He hates himself with a raw fury. He shouldn’t have failed. Benny’s death is his fault.

He burns Abaddon’s body so no trace will be left of her and decides to lay Benny to rest in New Orleans. Benny would want that. Castiel will find the Lafitte tomb and place Benny inside.

The scene changes, and now he’s making out with Benny. Except he’s not, as he soon realizes. The lips on his are Alastair’s. Alastair grips his shoulders tightly, and he cannot escape. He jerks in Alastair’s grasp, but to no avail.

“No use struggling, pretty boy,” Alastair sibilates. “You’re mine now and for always. Although I must admit, I like a fighting spirit. Turns me on, it does.” Alastair shoves him onto his back and straddles him.

“No!” Castiel wails. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Alastair clamps a hand over his mouth and undoes his pants with the other one. He spreads Castiel’s legs, hooking one over his shoulder, and inserts his full length into Castiel. Castiel bites into his lip, drawing blood.

Alastair sets a grueling pace, and it _hurts_ , no, please stop, _I’d give anything to make it_ stop, _please—_

A hand sweeps through his hair as if someone is attempting to soothe him; another one courses down his arm, and a voice, not Alastair’s, intones, “Cas. Cas, Cas, Cas. Oh, God.”

Castiel recoils from the touch, for it’s all _wrong_ , he shouldn’t crave Alastair’s caress so, he’s disgusted with himself—

“Hey. Hey, now. It’s just me, Cas.”

“Oh.” How did Alastair turn into Dean?

“You all right?”

Castiel nods, but his eyes leak tears, and then he’s shaking his head.

“Oh, Cas,” Dean says sadly. He leans in as if to embrace Castiel, but Castiel shrinks away from him.

“Don’t touch me!” Castiel shrieks. He lowers his eyes. “I apologize,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“Don’t worry ’bout it.”

Castiel’s limbs quiver. He spots the gauze on Dean’s neck and remembers last night. He shouldn’t have surrendered to temptation. He had no right to defile Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opinions seem to differ about whether or not vampires breathe, so I chose to go with yes.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm grateful for all kudos, comments, subscriptions, bookmarks, etc. As always, your thoughts are welcome!


	11. Embers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of rape.

Dean hates Alastair with a strength he’d never imagined possible. As if it’s not enough that the guy had mutilated Dean’s face, he had to go and turn Cas into this skittish thing.

Before, Cas had comforted Dean with touch, but now he retreats from Dean’s hands as if he's afraid they’ll destroy him.

Oh, yeah. That bastard’s gonna pay.

When Dean had come inside the house, he’d heard a cry from the guest bedroom. He’d jogged in to check on Cas, who he found weeping and flailing about in his sleep. Dean smoothed a hand through Cas’s hair (soft, gorgeous hair) and ran another over his arm, hoping to comfort him or, failing that, wake him up.

Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look of terror in Cas’s eyes when they finally opened.

Now, tears are trickling down Cas’s cheeks, and he’s staring at the wound on Dean’s neck. “What?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “Nothing. I’m sorry.” His eyes drift away from Dean to the curtains.

“Quit apologizin’, man.”

Cas’s eyes return to him. “How can I?” His lip trembles. “You shouldn’t be burdened with me.”

“You’re not a burden, Cas.”

“Of course I am.”

Dean enfolds one of Castiel’s hands between his own. When Cas attempts to yank it away, Dean only holds on tighter. “Let me go!” Cas demands, sounding both frightened and insecure.

Dean rubs a thumb over Cas’s knuckles. “We’re in this together, Cas.”

Cas wets his lips. “You don’t understand, Dean.” He pauses, his eyes frantically darting around the room. “He . . . how do I put this?” He laughs without mirth. “He dug underneath my skin, consuming me—”

There’s no question who “he” is. “He _raped_ you, Cas.”

Cas appears uncomfortable with the word, or maybe it’s the vehemence in Dean’s voice. “But I—” Cas’s cheeks redden. “—I’m not even sure if that’s the right term. I think something in me enjoyed it.”

“What?”

“He would always—he would always force my body to respond.”

Oh. _Oh_. “That doesn’t change the fact of the matter, Cas. Whatever your, um, body does, it’s still rape.”

“I was already tainted because of what I am,” Cas insists. “But now, after him, what he did, I’m . . . I’m completely soiled.”

“That’s not true, Cas. Nothing that motherfucker did reflects on you.” Dean brushes his lips over Cas’s palm before he allows Cas’s hand to fall back onto the blanket.

Dean tries not to think about what the gesture indicates regarding his feelings for Cas.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Dean spends the rest of the day watching a _Dr. Sexy_ marathon while Cas sleeps. He hopes Cas is getting some quality rest this time. At least he’s not yelling in his sleep.

He has no idea what he’s gonna tell Victor this evening. Time ticks on, counting down to the inevitable.

He’ll talk to Cas before he calls Victor, he decides. When he walks into the guest bedroom, Castiel’s eyes pop open. It’s almost as if he’s hypersensitive to sound. Maybe he is, Dean theorizes. Perhaps that’s one of the extra-human “capabilities” Cas mentioned.

Castiel attempts a smile, but he doesn’t quite pull it off. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean remembers a scene from an old _Dracula_ movie, something with Dracula rising from a coffin. “Guess it’s not true,” he muses.

Cas’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “What?”

“Vampires sleeping in coffins.”

Cas actually chuckles at that, and Dean can’t help but grin. “Why would anyone wish to sleep in a coffin? That sounds claustrophobic.”

“Hey, I didn’t make it up.”

“Much of the lore surrounding my kind is inaccurate.”

Dean sits in the chair by Cas’s bed. “I’ve noticed.” Sunlight doesn’t kill vampires, and apparently they can enter churches. Though maybe Pontiac Baptist Church doesn’t count since it’s defunct. “I’m gonna have to call Victor with an update soon.” Castiel gives him a questioning look, so Dean clarifies, “The police chief.”

“Ah.”

‘I’ll have to tell him somethin’ about ya.”

“Why?”

“Um. ’Cause he knows we discovered a victim inside the church. Jo—she was with me when I found you—saw ya. And, yeah, she’s a good cop, so she reported it to Victor.”

“What are you going to say to him?”

Dean exhales. “That’s what I’m tryin’ to figure out.” Dean taps his fingers on his knee, nerves escalating. “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout what you said earlier. About the police being no match for Alastair.” Castiel nods. “Well, what if they knew the truth about Alastair?”

“What do you mean?”

“Y’know, about Alastair being a vampire. Then they could know what we’re up against.”

“Why would they believe you?”

“You could tell them,” Dean mumbles, half-afraid of an outburst from Cas. “Show ’em your fangs and stuff.”

“ _No_.”

“Why not?” Dean curses his voice for sounding remarkably like a whine.

“Do you honestly think they would accept me? Plus, the usual police methods will have no effect with Alastair. The only viable course lies outside the law, in killing Alastair. They would not be willing to pursue that path, I would wager.”

“Hmm.” Garth and Chuck might be too anxious about it, and Victor is a by-the-books kinda guy. Jo and Bobby might be okay with it, but Cas is right. His colleagues might not be as accepting of Cas’s nature as he is. “Why can’t we just arrest him?”

Castiel snorts. “How does one keep vampires in jail? They can easily escape. Not to mention the likelihood of them preying on the other prisoners as well as the guards.”

Cas has a point there. “Yeah, okay. I guess it’s just you and me then, buddy.”

Cas frowns. “That is not prudent, Dean. We cannot defeat Alastair on our own.”

“But we can try. Who knows? David beat Goliath, right?”

“Yes. I suppose we can take a stand.” He sighs. “I wish Benny was here. He would know what to do.”

“Who’s Benny?”

“We worked together. He was like me. He’s been dead for thirty years.” Castiel laughs. “Can you believe it? Two vampires hunting their own kind.”

“I’m sorry. That you lost him.”

“Thank you.” After a few minutes, Cas concludes, “If you are determined to follow this fight Alastair, I will join you.”

Dean breaks into a grin, and Cas’s face mirrors his own. “Thanks. Uh. I guess I’ll call Victor now.”

“Good luck.”

Dean concocts a moronic lie that makes him seem incompetent. He tells Victor the “John Doe” is dead. An autopsy would be standard procedure, but since there is no body for Dean to send to a coroner, he claims that someone stole it while he was on a bathroom break.

“Great,” Victor huffs. “Now we’ve got a body snatcher on top of everything.” He chastises Dean for his negligence and rails about how he’s considering putting Dean back on leave. Dean begs Victor not to do that, to give him one more chance, and Victor acquiesces, with the stipulation that Dean investigate the theft of the victim’s body.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

During the next few days, Cas scarcely leaves his bed. His skin heals rapidly, but he ventures out only when he can’t go without another serving of blood. Dean is living with a depressed vampire, and with that realization, he marvels at how strange his life has become.

Sometimes, Dean wonders if not telling the other officers about Alastair’s true nature is unfair, maybe even unethical. He wants to ask Cas to reconsider his decision, but Cas bristles anytime Dean brings up the subject.

So one night, he turns to Sam for advice. In the living room, he slides onto the couch beside Sam, who is tying his shoes.

“Hey, can I ask ya somethin’?” Dean asks.

“Shoot,” Sam mumbles.

“Okay. So. You know that serial killer?” Sam straightens up and nods. “And about how Cas is a vampire?”

“Your point?” Sam prompts him.

“Yeah. Well. According to him, the serial killer is a vampire. And he’s got, like, a group of vampires with him. A nest, Cas called it.” Sam’s mouth hangs open. “So, I wanna tell everyone down at the station, ya know? But Cas says it’s not a good idea. But I think if he came with me, showed everyone what he is and helped me explain things . . . ”

“He’s right. It’s a terrible idea, Dean.”

“Why?” He swears he’s not pouting.

“You think they’d want to work with a vampire? He’d be arrested on the spot.”

“On what charge?” Dean replies indignantly.

Sam shrugs. “I’m sure they can think of something. Cruelty to animals, for one.”

“C’mon, Sam, that’s not fair! Cas kills them only so he won't die.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

Dean stares at Sam in disbelief. “Why would you say that?”

“Um, because of what he is?”

“How many times do I hafta tell ya this? He saved my _goddamn life_.”

“If a murderer saves your life, do you think he should still go scot free?”

Dean sucks in a breath. “This is totally different.”

“Is it?”

“You know what? Screw you, Sammy.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending a frickin’ vampire.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest. “Not just any vampire. _Cas_. What’s up with that, anyway? You always call him ‘the vampire.’ Can’t you even say his name?”

“Why do you trust him so much?” Sam counters. “Y'know, maybe it’s all just a ruse to gain your trust. Then once he has it, he’ll lure you into a trap he set up with the other vampires (if he’s even telling the truth about _that_ ).”

Dean snorts. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You saw how hurt he was. You think he’d let that happen for some stupid scheme?”

Sam stands up. “I don’t have time for this.”

For the first time, Dean notices Sam’s fancy getup. A nice white button-down shirt with navy slacks. “Where’re ya goin’, anyway?”

“Out,” Sam responds curtly.

“Ooh. A date. With who? It’s Sarah, isn’t it?” Sam’s death glare is all the confirmation he needs. He stretches his arms along the top of the couch and gives Sam a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t do anythin’ I wouldn’t do.”

“Gross, Dean.”

Sam aims for the front door, and Dean shouts, “I won’t wait up for ya.” Sam flips him the bird on his way out. “Bitch,” Dean mutters. He picks up Sam’s laptop from the coffee table and powers it on. He wants to learn more about Cas, his family, anything related to him.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Dean has been imploring Castiel to leave the guest bedroom, but Castiel does not possess the energy. Every time he closes his eyes, Alastair takes him apart. His only desire is to escape, for it to stop, but it never ceases. Even when he does not sleep, sensations prick his skin, sensations of Alastair touching him, fucking him—

He wishes Dean had let him die, but the time is too late for regrets. Stubborn Dean, wonderful Dean, gifted him with life, and he is ashamed of himself for being ungrateful.

But he is more ashamed that he revealed so much of himself to Dean during his first day in the Winchester house. He even mentioned Benny, and he’d never thought he would share memories of Benny with anyone.

Then there was that strange intimate moment he and Dean had shared. He doesn’t understand why he told Dean about what Alastair did to him. The only explanation he can conceive is that he was too shaken up to monitor himself.

Dean’s behavior toward him that night indicates some level of attraction. Castiel should not encourage it, for that would not be in Dean’s best interest.

Castiel attempts to abolish these ruminations from his mind, but to no avail. He wonders whether he should finally indulge Dean’s pleas, whether a trip to the living room would help. When he tiptoes into the hallway, he hears impassioned voices, his name. He halts his progress, not wanting to intrude. He cringes against the wall as he processes the words. Sam is suspicious of him. Sam hates him; it’s plain in the man’s tone of voice.

Castiel should not remain in this house, not when it displeases Dean’s brother so much.

After Sam shuts the front door, Castiel steps into the living room. Dean glances up from the computer, a smile blossoming on his face. It reaches those green eyes, so earnest, and Castiel swears he has never seen anything so beautiful. “Hey, Cas,” Dean greets him.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel responds as he perches on the couch beside Dean.

“You finally came out of your room.”

“Yes.” Castiel avoids meeting Dean’s gaze, and Dean frowns.

“What’s the matter, Cas?” Dean asks.

“I . . . ” He pauses, finding it difficult to form a sentence. “I think I should leave.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I am well now. Or as well as I can be.” Castiel lowers his voice with the second statement then raises it again. “I am causing conflict between you and your brother, and I don’t want—”

“What?”

“I am not propagating a ruse, but—” Castiel abruptly ceases speaking, afraid of how Dean will react to him eavesdropping.

“You heard that, huh?” Dean murmurs. Castiel studies Dean, stunned that he is not angry.

“I’m sorry, I just overheard and—”

“Don’t listen to him, Cas. It’s just that Sam doesn’t know you like I do.”

Castiel does not know how to respond. He catches a glimpse of the computer screen and observes that Dean has pulled up one of Anna Milton’s tracts. “Why are you reading about Anna Milton?”

“Oh. Um.” Dean blushes.

“I knew her,” Castiel says softly. “She and Michael turned me.”

“I know.” Castiel tilts his head, curious, and Dean’s cheeks redden further. “I mean. Um. I figured. I’ve been readin’ about ya, and how you and the Miltons disappeared from the Le Ange household at the same time . . . ”

“You know who I am,” Castiel whispers, awed. Dean nods. A sudden notion occurs to Castiel. “Do you think you could find out what happened to my family?” He realizes that he has no conception of the matter even though he has not seen them for almost two hundred thirty years. The fact does not reflect well on him. Had he loved his family? He cannot remember if he ever felt any affection for them, and that appalls him.

“Sure. We’ll just search the Internet.”

“The Internet,” Castiel repeats dubiously.

“Seriously? You don’t know what the Internet is?”

“I have heard of it, but no, I have never understood the concept.”

“Wow, you’ve got loads of learnin’ to do. Music and modern technology.” Castiel recalls the time they spent at his cabin, when Dean had told Castiel that he would teach him about “real music.” Would Dean share his musical tastes with him sometime? “Here. Come see,” Dean urges. Castiel scoots closer to the human and reads the text on the computer’s screen. Castiel’s parents and Raphael lost their lives to the guillotine. Uriel was killed during a gambling dispute. Hester and her husband died of old age, and Rachel’s husband stabbed her twenty times. Authorities determined that he was insane and committed him for the rest of his life.

Castiel weeps at the news. Rachel was the only one who was ever kind to him.

“God, that’s horrible. I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean commiserated afterward.

Castiel wiped at his eyes. “I am all right. Perhaps this is an awful thing to say, but Rachel was my favorite. She was only two years older than me, and I . . .” His voice cracks. “I hate myself for never knowing.”

Dean massages his shoulder. “’S not your fault.” Dean closes the computer and waits for Castiel’s tears to dry. “Um. Well.”

“I am fine, Dean,” Castiel assures him. To his surprise, Castiel recognizes that he speaks truthfully. He realizes that his side is flush against Dean’s. Castiel can feel the warmth from Dean’s skin radiating through his shirt, yet he is far from uncomfortable. This, despite the fact that, lately, any contact with another’s skin, even through layers, reminds him of Alastair. Now, though . . . now, Dean’s heat relaxes him. Intoxicates him.

No. He should not allow himself these contemplations. He refuses to drag Dean down with him.

“Hey,” Dean utters. “I meant it when I said you should stay. But maybe we should go get your clothes or somethin’. How ’bout we head up to your cabin?”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

Castiel shakes his head. “My clothes are not at the cabin. They are in my car.” Dean gives him a quizzical look, and Castiel elaborates, “When you left, I . . . I didn’t know what you would do. If you would bring the cops there. So I took to living in my car.”

“That pimpmobile?”

“What? No, it is a Lincoln Continental.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Where is it?”

“I left it by the church.”

“It ain’t there, Cas.”

“Of course it is.”

“No. I didn’t see it there the other night.”

“Hmm. Then I suppose I will have to procure new clothing.”

“Yeah.” Dean bounds to his feet. “Let’s go shopping, huh? . . . God, I sound like a girl.”

“Where should we go?” Castiel inquires as he stands up to join Dean.

“I dunno. Wal-Mart?”

“Wal-Mart’s sartorial offerings are unappealing,” Castiel sniffs.

Dean chuckles. “Sometimes I wonder if you speak English.”

“I am speaking English.”

“Dude, sarcasm. Okay then. I think Kohl’s is open until ten or eleven or somethin’ like that. You cool with that?”

“Kohl’s is acceptable, yes.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Before he and Castiel leave the house, Dean gives Cas a pair of jeans to wear with his shirt since sweatpants don’t really match. Even though the pants are too tight for Dean, Cas still needs to wear a belt to hold them up. When Dean tries to convince Cas to switch his shirt for a clean one, however, he refuses, professing that he does not want to use more of Dean’s possessions than he must.

Outside, Dean swipes a hand over the roof of the Impala before he unlocks the doors. “This is my baby,” he pronounces.

Cas’s eyes scour the car, and after a minute, he nods. “It is gorgeous, Dean.”

“Damn right she is.” Dean smiles, jubilant that Cas appreciates the awesomeness of his baby. He turns on some AC/DC. At first, Cas seems startled by the music, but eventually he confesses that it is growing on him.

Cas insists they ascertain whether his car is really missing before they go to the store. Sure enough, the vehicle is no longer parked near Pontiac Baptist Church.

“It seems I will have to purchase a completely new wardrobe,” Cas mourns. “That will be costly.”

“I can pay for it, if you want,” Dean offers, face heating up as Cas gazes at him unblinkingly. “Uh. Not that I’m rich or anythin’, but y’know. I can help.”

“Thank you, Dean, but that is unnecessary. I have sufficient resources.”

“Um. Okay.” Cas stares as if he knows Dean has a question, so Dean continues, “Where’d you get the money?”

“Credit card fraud. Robbery.”

Dean almost chokes on his own breath. “The fuck? Am I gonna have to take you in?” Dean gibes.

“Have I not informed you that jailing vampires is unwise?” Damn, but Dean _swears_ Cas’s smile is teasing.

Dean slaps Cas on the shoulder. “Consider this your lucky day, man.”

“If it helps, I steal only from unsavory characters.”

“Like that rapist.”

“Yes.” Cas lowers his eyes, and shit, why is Dean drawn to the flutter of his lashes?

“We’re here,” Dean announces as he pulls into a parking spot. Cas follows him into the store, but once inside, Cas leads him to the coat section. Cas stalks through the racks until he stops beside a bunch of trenchcoats. He peels a long khaki one from the hanger and threads his arms through it.

“What do you think?” Cas asks, positively _beaming_. It’s kind of adorable, but Dean would die before admitting that.

Dean snorts. “It looks just like your last one.”

“Exactly.”

Dean tsks. “You need more flair, Cas.” He spots a cool jacket on the next rack and picks it up. “How ’bout this one?”

Cas chortles. “That is almost identical to the one you are wearing, Dean, except it is black.” Dude has a point there. But c’mon, leather jackets are awesome, whether in black or brown or whatever. “You should buy it for yourself.”

“Nah.”

“Put it on.”

“Fine.” Dean switches out his beloved jacket for the new one; then they find a mirror and check themselves out. At the sight of his scarred face, Dean flashes back to that night in the warehouse, that fucking asshole slashing at his face again and again . . .

“Dean?” Cas prompts. “Are you all right?”

Dean shakes himself out of it. “’M good,” he mumbles.

“I understand,” Cas says after a moment. “It is difficult, is it not?” Cas’s eyes shine with honesty, even a hint of vulnerability, and it grounds Dean.

Dean knows exactly what Cas is referring to. They were both mauled by that bastard. Out of everyone, Cas is the only one who understands because he went through it, too.

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

“You look good,” Cas declares.

“So do you.” Dean bites his lip, a little disconcerted he actually said that aloud. But weird as it is to walk around in a trenchcoat all the time, there’s no denying that the look suits Cas.

Cas grins. “Thank you, Dean.”

They move to another area of the store, accumulating a pile of shirts and pants for Cas to try on. Damn, but Dean feels like such a _girl_ , shopping without becoming bored. Before Cas enters the dressing room, Dean throws a few pairs of jeans on top of his stack of clothing, and Cas seems a bit miffed.

“What?” Dean says. “You’ve gotta wear more than dress pants, Cas.”

“I suppose,” Cas sighs.

Dean doesn’t tire of watching Cas traipse out in different outfits. Cas tries on the jeans last, and crap, Dean sure picked the best friggin’ styles. They hug Cas in all the right places.

“See something you like, Dean?” Cas smirks, and that’s when Dean realizes he’s been leering. Cas claps a hand over his mouth, as if he can’t fathom how those words just flew out of his mouth. “I apologize. That was uncalled for,” he hurries to say.

“Cas,” Dean responds, “What did I say to you about apologizin’?”

“Oh,” Cas breathes after a long silence.

“You’re buyin’ those jeans,” Dean says, his tone uncompromising.

They check out, Dean purchasing the black leather jacket since Cas has been bugging him about it all night. They lug several bags to the Impala. Near the car, Cas drops his bags and whirls around as if he heard something, but Dean doesn’t perceive jack.

“Cas?” Dean ventures. Cas places a finger to his lips, his eyes widening.

“Well, well, well,” a man intones from behind Dean. He jumps, his bags tumbling to the ground, because _what the fuck?_ “Castiel is alive. Alastair will be interested to hear of this. Won’t he, Kate?”

“ _Very_ interested, Luther.”

“It will be a joy to hear Castiel’s screams once more, will it not?” Cas freezes.

“Leave him alone,” Dean snaps.

“And with Officer Winchester,” Kate adds. “Isn’t that _intriguing_?” She grabs Dean, restraining him as Luther attacks Castiel, sword moving so quickly that Dean can’t follow its motion. In a blur, Cas disarms him; then Luther’s head is hitting the asphalt. Kate releases Dean and spars with Cas. In less than ten seconds, her head joins Luther’s on the ground.

“Get in the car!” Cas orders. Dean just stands there, so Cas explains, “We need to go before anyone sees us!”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean unlocks the doors, Cas snatches up the bags, and they scramble into the car. As Dean speeds through the streets, he hisses, “What the fuck was that?”

“Kate and Luther,” Cas answers.

“I know _that_. I mean. Just. What. The. Fuck.”

“They were members of Alastair’s nest. They had to be dealt with.”

“But seriously, _beheading_? Couldn’t we just arrest them or something?”

Cas fixes him with an impatient stare. “Dean. Let me repeat this in case I have not made it clear. We cannot defeat Alastair’s nest by operating within the law. The only way to eliminate the threat is to kill. Alastair especially. If you are not willing to commit to this approach, then you are a liability. You will lose. I did what I had to.”

Dean lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. I’m in.” If that’s what it takes to protect his town, then he will do it. “But I can’t move that fast—”

“I shall teach you.”

Dean nods absently. “All right.”

“We have one advantage.”

Yeah, right. “What’s that?”

“They believe that I am dead.” Dean notes the steeliness in Cas’s eyes. It proclaims, _this is not a motherfucker to mess with._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid it could seem as if Sam is blase about the revelation that the serial killer is a vampire with a nest. As hinted at, he doesn't really believe anything Cas says, at least right now. He'll have a more appropriate reaction later.
> 
> Bits of this chapter feel off to me, so I hope it's okay.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Feedback is welcome!


	12. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter so far.
> 
> Warning for a flashback to rape. Also, some brief sexy times.

It feels like ants are crawling underneath Dean’s skin. All he’s doing is damn _paperwork_ , and that’s not gonna help him catch Alastair and his band of merry vampires. Cas had promised not to pursue the case without Dean; not that Cas can do much in the daytime, anyway. Still, Dean feels like he’s wasting potentially useful time. If nothing else, Cas could be teaching him something. Lord knows Dean sorely needs lessons if he’s gonna square off against a vampire. Kate and Luther had been more than twice as fast as he him at his speediest, and according to Cas, they were the weakest vampires in Alastair’s bunch.

Dean nibbles the end of his pen as he fills in yet another friggin’ line on a form. His tongue hangs out of his mouth, and when its tip touches his bottom lip, he tastes ink and makes a face. He glances down at the pen, whose ink is leaking onto his hand.

Jo looks up from the desk next to his. “’You okay, Winchester?”

“Fine,” Dean snips. “It’s just this stupid fuckin’ pen.”

She narrows her eyes, her expression all too shrewd. “If you ever need someone to talk to—”

“I said I was fine, thanks,” Dean hisses.

“You don’t hafta be such a dick about it,” she snaps, face reddening as she turns her attention back to her own bureaucratic shitstorm.

 _If you ever need someone to talk to_.

The words give him an idea. He can talk to Kevin, right? What if Dean went on leave after all? He could spend more time on what actually matters, stopping Alastair. ’Cause worrying over these papers is just a distraction from his real purpose. Much as he loves his colleagues, he ain’t gonna put a halt to Alastair by sticking with them. He needs to be learning from and working with Cas.

He shoves the papers aside, and with a tissue, tries to wipe the ink off his hand. Just his luck that most of it has already dried. Whatever. He tosses the Kleenex in his trash can, meanders to Kevin’s office, and raps on the door.

“Yes? Who is it?” Kevin calls.

Dean opens the door and peers inside. “You got a minute?” he says.

Kevin smiles, which makes his face look boyish. “Of course, Dean.” He waves at a chair in front of his desk. “Sit down.” After Dean sinks into the seat, Kevin continues, “What can I do for you?”

Dean clears his throat. “Um. Well. I’m startin’ to think that maybe I made a mistake.” He twines his fingers together, the motion mollifying his nerves somewhat.

“What do you mean?”

“Um. Maybe I was a little hasty when I said I wanted to be back on the job?” Why does his voice sound so freakin’ high-pitched? “I mean. Uh. I want the bastard who did this to fuckin’ pay.” Dean gestures at his face, and Kevin nods. “I want to be on the case more than anything, but there’s this part of me that thinks I’m too close to it. There’s a reason cops aren’t allowed to work on cases that involve people they know.

“And, ugh. How do I put this? I keep having these damn flashbacks of the guy attacking me. I’m concerned that this could, uh, impair me in the field.” There. That sounds reasonable enough, right? There’s even a kernel of truth to it.

“Those are legitimate issues, Dean. Do you want to schedule more sessions? Perhaps discussing things may help.”

“Thanks, Kevin. It’s good of you to offer, but no. I think I just need some time out. To rest, y’know?”

“Sometimes rest and time are all we need. I’ll talk to Victor and see what I can do.”

“Thanks, doc.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t call me that.” Kevin looks sheepish. “It makes me feel old.”

“Whatever, doc.” Dean flashes Kevin an impish smile on his way out.

xxxxxxxxxx

Cas pries his lips off the glass, leaving a smudge of blood. “I don’t understand,” he says, frowning. “Don’t you have to go to the station?”

Dean had waited for Sam to go to work before putting the proposal to Cas. This is none of his brother’s business, and besides, he probably wouldn’t approve.

Dean indicates his outfit, which is composed of sturdy brown boots, jeans, and a red button-down. “Does it look like I’m dressed for cop duty?”

“No. Why not?”

“Because I’m on leave.”

Cas’s expression grows sympathetic. “Oh, Dean. I am sorry.”

“No, Cas. It’s a good thing.”

Cas raises a skeptical eyebrow. “It is?”

“Yep. So, whaddaya think? Wanna teach me somethin’ or what?”

“Do you have any weapons?”

“What, like a gun? I’ve got that.”

“No. Swords.”

“Uh, no. Why would I own a frickin’ sword?”

Cas sighs. “I assume that your skills with the sword are subpar, then?”

“God, you don’t have to be a douche about it. It’s not like I ever needed to use one.”

“You do to fight a vampire.”

“Because I saw _that_ in my future.”

“It is part of your future now.” Dean has nothing to say in response. Cas guzzles half of his glass in the ensuing silence, and Dean watches, hypnotized by the blood as it flows from the cup into Cas’s mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing rhythmically with the motion. Should he think that’s hot? Probably not. God, he must be some sort of deviant. “We have Luther’s sword. I wish I had possessed the presence of mind to take Kate’s as well,” Cas continues. “We can procure a second from my cabin. Most of my weapons were in my vehicle, but I forgot one, I believe.”

“How do you know that?”

Cas shrugs. “I was bored one night, and I counted them. One was missing; I assume it is at the cabin.”

An idea seizes Dean. “Hey, we should do the vampire lessons at your cabin.” Cas chuckles at the phrase “vampire lessons,” but Dean barrels on. “I don’t wanna mess up anythin’ in the house, and the backyard . . . well, the fence doesn’t give any privacy, and the neighbors would probably think it’s weird for us to be sword-fighting.”

“Fencing.”

“What?”

“The proper term is ‘fencing.’”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever. So. What do you think?”

Cas smiles. “I agree.”

“So let’s head out there, yeah?”

“Now? With the sun out?” Cas whines, the sound jarring to Dean’s ears.

“I thought the sun wouldn’t kill ya.”

“It won’t. But it _hurts_. Can’t we wait until nighttime?”

The cabin is surrounded by a dense canopy of forest, so the sun wouldn’t be a huge problem once they got there. They could also practice in the basement. If Dean remembers correctly (and he’s not sure, as he was preoccupied at the time), the basement is roomy and relatively uncluttered.

Bottom line, though: he can’t wait for night. Not if he’s gonna keep this from Sam.

“What about if you just, y’know, covered yourself up until we got there?”

“I suppose that could work,” Cas muses. “All right. Let me finish this.” He eyes the glass. “Then we can go.”

“Cool.”

After Cas drains the glass of its contents, they bolt to the car, Cas clutching the trenchcoat to his chest. In the Impala, he draws it over his face and arms, all his skin disappearing from view. It’s kind of funny, and Dean bites his lip to prevent himself from laughing. “Why are we not moving?” Cas asks, his voice muffled. “Can you please hurry?”

“Okay, man,” Dean mutters, a giggle escaping him. He stares down at the trenchcoat lump for a moment, hoping Cas hadn’t heard. There’s no reaction, thank God.

He switches out _Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap_ for _Highway to Hell_ , and the title track blares through the speakers. Cas is quiet until Dean starts singing along.

“Your voice is terrible,” Cas observes. Dean laughs. “That is not a joke,” Cas adds. “This music is adequate, but its quality decreases significantly when you sing.”

“Only adequate?” Dean huffs. “You wouldn’t know good music if it hit you in the face.”

“Perhaps I would appreciate it more if I did not hear you accompanying the vocalist.”

Dean shuts up after that.

Once he reaches the edge of town, Dean realizes that he doesn’t know how to get to Cas’s cabin. He wasn’t exactly paying attention when he rushed through the woods that night. “Cas,” Dean rumbles. “How ‘bout some directions?”

“Are you lost, Dean?” Why does Cas sound so damn amused?

“ _No_. Um. Maybe?”

“I cannot give you directions without exposing myself to the sun.”

“Maybe it won’t be a big deal if we hurry?”

Cas snorts as his eyes peer above the trenchcoat’s collar. He squints against the light as if it blinds him. Perhaps it does. “Turn right up there,” he mumbles. Cas’s voice guides Dean until he pulls up in front of the cabin. When Dean flips off the ignition, Cas hands Dean the keys and says, “You unlock the door. Inform me when you have it open.”

“Okay.”

After Dean unlocks the door, Dean drags a stumbling Cas inside. Cas tosses the trenchcoat on the couch. “Finally,” he breathes. Dean stares. Cas’s forehead is bright red, as is the skin surrounding his eyes.

“What the fuck happened?” Dean asks.

He follows Cas to the bathroom, where Cas examines himself in the mirror. He brushes a fingertip against his temple and grimaces. “Sunburn,” he explains. “I was exposed to the sun for too long.”

“What? It was only, like, two seconds.”

“It was longer than that, Dean,” Cas chides, literal as always. “And today the sun is particularly bright. On a cloudy day, the sun might not affect me at all.”

“How long’s it gonna take to heal?”

“In about two hours, if my memory serves me right, my skin shall return to its normal hue. But until then, it will be extremely painful, and I will be unable to do anything.”

Dean glances at his watch. “Hey, _The Price is Right_ should be comin’ on about now. How’s that sound?”

“Mindless entertainment would be a welcome distraction,” Cas concurs.

As Dean tunes the TV into _The Price is Right_ , he wonders how this place still has electricity. Cas hasn’t been here in a few weeks; surely he hasn’t been paying the bill? _Fuck it, who cares,_ he concludes.

Dean props his boots up on the heavily scratched coffee table, but Cas sits in a more rigid position, his back straight and feet firmly planted on the floor. Dude needs to relax. When the bidding begins, Dean yells at the TV, blurting out his guess. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cas flinch.

“Must you be so loud?” Cas slurs.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles. He shuts his pie hole.

After the first pricing game, Cas says, “I did not mean that you must be completely silent.”

Dean resumes playing, and eventually Cas joins in, though he keeps his voice low. His head lolls onto Dean’s shoulder, and Dean doesn’t even realize he has an arm slung around Cas’s shoulders until the episode ends and Cas is gazing up at him with his bluer than blue. Not only that, but he’s threading fingers through Cas’s hair. He ceases the movement, and for just a split second, Cas appears startled. Dean resumes the motion and studies Cas, noting how starkly the blue orbs contrast with his red skin. “You all right?” he inquires.

“It still hurts,” Cas murmurs, breath a wisp against Dean’s neck. The feverish tinge in his eyes confirms the truth of Cas’s words.

“You’ll be fine. Just rest.”

“Mmm.”

Cas’s eyelids flutter closed, shutting off the blue.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Dean had watched, entranced as the red gave way to Castiel’s characteristic paleness. Now, Cas seems way too energetic.

“You brought us here to commence your training, Dean,” he asserts as he snatches the remote from Dean’s hand and shuts off the TV. “The time for lollygagging has passed.”

Training? The word evokes images of the Olympics, the athletes putting themselves through a grueling regimen. Cas isn’t gonna be _that_ hardcore, is he?

Dean leans back against the sofa cushions and smirks, clasping his hands behind his head. “Get on with the vampire lessons, professor.”

Cas’s mouth twitches, seemingly in spite of himself. “Yes, Dean. Here is your first lesson.” He paces up and down, which makes Dean a little fidgety. He also doesn’t like Cas standing up, all authoritative, while he’s sitting down. It’s like the dude towers over him. Cas stills his steps, his hands fastened behind himself. “How to kill a vampire.”

“Let me guess. Beheading?”

“That is one method, yes.”

“Ooh, what else? Stake to the heart? A cross? Silver bullet?”

“No, Dean.” He laughs softly. “You have mixed up your lore. Silver bullets are for werewolves. Stake to the heart—that’s fiction. Crosses also do not harm us. In fact—” Cas leaves the room and returns a minute later with a wooden cross affixed to a green string. He dons the necklace, and the cross lies flat against his skin. “Do you see? It has no effect whatsoever.”

“Damn. So how _do_ you kill a vampire?”

Cas tugs off the necklace and throws it on the couch. “There are two other methods. First, exsanguination.”

“Exsangui-who?”

“Exsanguination. Draining the vampire of blood.” In a trembling whisper, he adds, “That is what Alastair did to me.”

Dean gives him time to regain his bearings then prompts, “And the other one?”

“Starvation. Actually, starvation is a form of exsanguination. The vampire does not consume enough blood to replenish the supply in his or her veins.”

“How does that work?” Dean asks. How do vampires lose blood if they’re not bleeding out? What do they do, shit the stuff?

“We live on borrowed blood,” Cas answers. “I am not certain of the particulars, but the blood, once it leaves its host, starts to grow stale. When it becomes stale, it evaporates. No, that is not the right term. It disintegrates, fusing into the bones or some other part of our bodies. I forget.”

“Huh.”

“Starvation and exsanguination are difficult to perpetrate. You would need the resources to restrain the vampire for a sufficient amount of time.” Cas’s eyes flicker with an uneasy memory; then he continues, “Thus, beheading is the best option.”

“I’d say.”

“So you must know how to handle a sword. Did you bring in Luther’s as I asked?”

Dean eyes the sword where it leans against the wall. “Yeah.”

Cas picks it up and says, “Come. I will show you the basics.” He descends the stairs to the basement, and Dean follows. Cas flings open a closet and rummages around. Dean notices a medicine cabinet, and he peaks inside and discovers all sorts of plants and herbs and shit. “What’s all this stuff?” he inquires.

Cas passes the sword to Dean and replies, “Ingredients for various concoctions.”

“What, like witchcraft?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, so you’re a witch and a vampire,” Dean teases.

“No. I just know how to create a few mixtures. No mysticism required, though a witch did convey this knowledge to Benny and me.” Cas grows subdued. Dean is about to ask Cas why he didn’t put all that junk in his car when he claps his hands and declares, “All right. Hold the sword.”

“Hold it?”

“As you would if you were about to fight.”

“Um. Okay.” Dean raises the weapon aloft, and Cas titters. Dean frowns. “What?”

“That is not the proper manner. Here, let me show you.” Cas shuffles behind Dean and maneuvers his arm until he’s apparently holding the sword in a “proper manner.” Dean can’t help but think of the intimacy of the action, Cas’s chest pressed against his back, their arms entwined. Cas steps away, and Dean misses his proximity. “Good,” Cas mutters. He resumes his spot in front of Dean and hefts his own sword. “I shall attack. React as if I am a member of Alastair’s nest.”

“What?” But before Dean can process what’s going on, Cas has him disarmed and pinned to the ground. Dean shivers at the cold metal against his neck.

“If this were a real situation, you would be dead by now.”

“Yeah, smartass,” Dean grumbles. “I told you I’m not that fast.” He kicks at Cas’s ankle, and Cas tumbles to the floor. Dean laughs at the shock on Cas’s face.

“Ah. You like to fight dirty. That could be an advantage.”

“Figure they’re fightin’ dirty, too, right?”

“Most likely.” Cas bounds to his feet and extends a hand. Dean accepts, allowing Cas to pull him up. Cas announces, “I will move more slowly this time. I think you should be able to parry.”

Despite Cas’s declaration, Dean still can’t maneuver quickly enough. Cas appears thoughtful after knocking Dean’s sword away.

“Okay,” Cas says. “I will hold my position. Strike as you think appropriate, and I shall react as I would in a real bout.”

“All right.” The world’s lamest swordfight ensues, each man freezing in his latest move until Dean loses once again. “Dammit!” he yells.

“Do not despair, Dean. You are doing well.”

“How can you say that? I suck.”

Cas tilts his head in that impossibly adorable way. “You _are_ new at this,” he points out. “You have much potential.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You merely need practice,” Cas assures him. “So we shall continue. I will explicate each move I make. After you move, I will inform you of what I would have done.”

“Okay.”

They resume the lesson, but Dean doesn’t seem to be getting any better. After a few more tries, he howls in frustration and chucks the sword to the ground.

“Trust your instincts, Dean,” Cas advises. “Again.”

“Can’t we take a freakin’ break?” Dean complains.

“Again,” Cas repeats.

“Fine.” He picks up the sword, and this time—

This time, Dean traps Cas against the long table.

“Aha!” Dean exclaims. “Who’s the man now!”

Cas’s sword slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground. “I let you win,” he claims.

“Right. You just don’t want to admit you lost, Mr. Vampire.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Do you know what I could do to you? So easily, too.”

Dean’s face inches closer to Cas’s “Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” Cas pushes farther into Dean’s personal space, until their lips are separated by a thin strip of air.

Dean trusts his instincts.

He shoves his lips onto Cas’s, the pressure hard enough to bruise. Cas returns the kiss in kind, tongue darting into Dean’s mouth, licking over his teeth. Dean’s tongue tangles with Cas’s and invades his mouth.

When Dean finally breaks for air, Cas challenges, “Is that all you’ve got?”

“Oh no you didn’t,” Dean breathes, lips aiming for Cas’s once again, this kiss even more punishing than the last. But damn if it isn’t delicious, and Cas seems to agree, if the purr emanating from his throat is any indication. Cas flips Dean around and pushes him onto the table. Then he’s crawling onto it himself and straddling Dean. Cas rolls his hips downward, and Dean groans, the contact inflaming him.

“Is this what you want?” Cas says in that fuckin’ sexy voice. Dean could come just from listening to those gravelly intonations.

“Fuck, yeah, Cas.” He bucks up against Cas, who moans at the sensation.

Dean is hard, and through his jeans and Cas’s black pants, he can feel Cas’s own arousal. Their thrusts become more frantic. Dean has the dim thought that this would be so much better without clothes, but he’s too impatient to stop things now, and apparently Cas is, too. Cas pins Dean’s wrists to the table, and that’s so fucking hot. This table, where he was torturing that guy the night Dean ran away. Why does that turn him on? He must be sick. Sick or not, he doesn’t care. All that exists is this, now. Dean swears he can sense some force thrumming underneath Castiel’s skin, something related to what he is, perhaps, and that’s hot, too, everything about Cas is so damn bright, so gorgeous—

“Cas, I’m gonna—” Dean gasps.

Cas ruts against him at an ever-increasing speed, one he’s not sure he can match. “Do it,” Cas demands.

“Fuck, Cas—Castiel,” Dean whimpers, his back arching off the table. He comes in his boxers like some horny adolescent. He can’t say he regrets the squishiness.

“Mmm, Dean,” Cas hums. A blissed-out haze infuses the blue as Cas rides out his own orgasm. Cas collapses against Dean, lips feather light against his jaw.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel savors the flavor wafting off of Dean’s skin. He treasures the sensation of Dean raking fingers through his hair. Something about Dean coaxes him deeper, and he would drown willingly. Except—

This is _wrong_. He cannot allow Dean to sink this low. Dean is a good man, and corrupting him would be a rotten thing to do.

Then again, he is evil, isn’t he? Not by choice, but he must be, considering what he is.

No. No matter what he is, he must protect Dean. This was a mistake.

He rises to his knees.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel expresses. “I shouldn’t have done that. It will not happen again.”

“What the fuck, Cas?” Dean growls.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel repeats. “This was selfish.” He lowers his eyes in shame. “I should not have instigated this.”

Dean sits up. “ _I_ instigated it.”

“But I escalated it.”

“What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“I—” Castiel swallows. “—I—” He cannot grasp the thought.

“What if I want it to happen again?” Dean asks quietly.

Castiel levels a penetrating gaze at him. “Why would you? I am—me. What I am. A vampire.” The last two words come out in a squeak.

Dean cups his jaw with one hand, and Castiel doesn’t have the strength to shake off the touch. “So?”

“So?” Castiel laughs without mirth. “I am unholy. Dirty.”

“It’s not what you are, Cas, it’s who you are.” Castiel stares at him blankly. “From what I can tell, you’re a-okay. More than. I’ve seen humans who’re worse than you. Hell, you’re better than most humans I’ve seen, period.”

“But I am like Alastair.” Castiel knows that, deep down, this is so. They are both vampires. And though he despises himself for it, a part of him enjoys torturing others, just like Alastair. It doesn’t signify if he unleashes it on only murderers and rapists.

“Don’t get me started on that bastard,” Dean snarls. He traces a finger over the scar that begins on his left cheek. “Would you do something like this?”

“Not to you,” he says softly.

“Who, then? Alastair?”

“Alastair and his sort, yes.”

“So would I.”

“But you wouldn’t enjoy it,” Castiel argues.

“Hell, I’d fuckin’ _love_ to do that to Alastair.” Those liquid green pools are so honest, so fervent, that Castiel believes him. Does Dean feel that way because of him?

Dean squeezes Castiel’s hand. “I won’t let you go that easy.” His kiss is gentle, a far cry from the passion of earlier. Its pulse drips down Castiel’s throat and into his heart, there to join the previous kisses.

Dean winces when their lips part. “Damn. I’m sticky.” He blushes.

“I do have a shower, Dean. And a washer and dryer,” Castiel reminds him.

“Fuckin-A.”

Castiel scrounges up two towels. Dean showers first. Meanwhile, Castiel sits on the table and contemplates the latest turn of events.

He should not have allowed his sex drive to take over, but he cannot change the past. He acted on it, and Dean reciprocated. Dean wishes to continue pursuing this thing between them. Though Castiel fears that doing so is not best for Dean, he finds resisting difficult. After all, it is what he wants, too.

Suddenly, he recalls Alastair, his fingers scouring over Castiel’s body. He shivers and attempts to swat the memory away.

Only at this moment, with Dean no longer nearby, does he flashback to Alastair. The earlier activity with Dean—he had felt nothing of Alastair. Why not? Was it because he wasn’t on the bottom? Because he wasn’t being fucked? Because there had been no penetration whatsoever?

Or was it Dean himself? Does something about Dean overpower the trauma of Alastair?

Now, he feels Alastair keenly. Alastair slamming his body to the ground, peeling everything away, his clothes, his skin, barreling inside, and the blood dripping down his thighs—

The cold merciless wood underneath him, unyielding, like Alastair, and he cannot _move_ , it burns underneath his fingernails, and he realizes that he’s digging grooves into the wood—

“Cas?” Dean calls, and Castiel returns to the cabin’s basement. “Fuck, you okay?” Dean strides toward Castiel, pulling him into an embrace. He buries his face in Dean’s shoulder, which is soon soaked with moisture.

 _Oh_. He’s been crying.

He pulls back from Dean and leans against the wall. “I am fine, Dean,” he asserts. “It was momentary foolishness.”

With a thumb, Dean wipes a tear from beneath Castiel’s left eye, the pad of the digit stroking his cheekbone. Castiel notices the towel tied around Dean’s waist and laughs.

“What?” Dean utters.

“You are wearing a shirt with a towel. The effect is amusing.”

Dean smirks. “Yeah, well, you’re also going to be wearing this stylish outfit after you shower.”

Castiel removes himself from the table, feet pounding onto the floor. He takes his shower, luxuriating in the water’s warmth.

Afterward, he washes his and Dean’s pants and boxers while he and Dean lounge in their shirts and towels and view what Dean terms “crappy daytime TV.” Once their clothes are dry, the sun has set, and they return to Dean’s abode.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Castiel and Dean spend the next three days at the cabin, but they return to Dean’s house early in the evening. In the mornings, Castiel wears a ski mask during the drive, and he doesn’t experience another sunburn. Dean’s skills are progressing nicely, and Castiel believes that Dean will soon be an even match for many members of Alastair’s nest. In one-on-one combat, at any rate. They exchange lazy kisses, Castiel using them to motivate Dean when he tires of practicing. They delay further sexual activity for the time being since they both want to focus on combatting Alastair.

On the third night, when they walk through the front door, Sam examines them from the couch and inquires, “Where have y’all been?”

“My cabin,” Castiel answers. Dean gives him an annoyed look, and Castiel does not understand why.

“What? Shouldn’t you be at work, Dean?”

Castiel’s eyes dart between Dean and Sam. Why would Sam ask such a question? He knows that on Dean is on leave. Doesn’t he?

“Yeah, about that, Sammy,” Dean croaks.

Sam arches an eyebrow. “What?”

“They put me on leave again.”

“What? Why wouldn’t you tell me about that, Dean?”

“Um.”

“So what’ve you been doing for the past few days?”

“Like Cas said. Spending time at his cabin.”

“Doing what?”

Dean remains silent for a minute. Castiel realizes that Dean is not going to reply, so he responds, “Training.” Dean smacks a hand to his forehead.

“Training. What the fuck does that mean?” Sam spits.

“To fight Alastair,” Dean mumbles.

“Who?!”

“The damn serial killer!” Dean snaps.

“Why would you hide that from me?” He eyes Castiel then turns back to Dean. “Because he asked you?”

“I am the one who just informed you of our activities,” Castiel points out, indignant that Sam would refer to him as “he” while they are in the same room. “I apologize, Sam. I did not know that you were unaware of the matter.”

“It was your idea to keep it a secret?” Sam asks Dean. “Why?”

“’Cause. I knew you wouldn’t get it.”

“You’re right. I don’t. If you want to help catch the guy, you need to be back on the police force.”

“The dude’s a vampire,” Dean scoffs. “Do you really think the cops are gonna stop him?”

“Oh, so you’ll do better as a vigilante?” Sam counters sarcastically.

“Damn right.”

“And what’re you gonna do, Dean? Put him in jail? You need to be on duty for that.”

“Kill him.”

“What?”

“I said kill him, Sammy,” Dean repeats more loudly. His expression is determined, formidable.

“That’s insane. And illegal, Dean.”

“No shit.”

Castiel interrupts, “Alastair is a vampire, Sam. He has a nest consisting of a substantial number of other vampires. A human police force is not equipped to handle them.”

“And you two are?”

“More so than the human police, yes.”

“Why are you tellin’ all these fucking lies?” Sam rails. “What do you want with my brother?”

“It’s not a lie, asshole,” Dean hisses. “Do you know what happened to us the other night?” Sam shakes his head. “We went to Kohl’s, all right? And these two vampires came into the parking lot. They were so damn _fast_. If it wasn’t for Cas, I’d’ve been toast.”

Sam frowns. “Wait a minute. Was this that night they found those bodies there? With their heads cut off?”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell, Dean! Do you know how much time you could serve for that?”

“Technically, Dean did nothing. I did,” Castiel chimes in.

Sam gapes at him. “Then you should be in jail.”

“What do you think will happen if you jail a vampire?” Castiel retorts.

Sam appears to be contemplating the question. Finally, he says, “I see.”

“If you do not believe me,” Castiel continues, “I can show you, once we find Alastair’s latest hideout.”

“Cas—” Dean objects.

Castiel holds up a hand. “He has a right to know, Dean. To see it for himself.”

“Why can’t he just trust us? Trust me.”

“I understand why he doesn’t.” Surprise suffuses Sam’s hazel eyes. “Your skepticism is sensible, Sam. I am a monster, after all.—”

“Cas—”

“Let me finish, Dean. Sam, in your position, I might feel the same way. Your mindset is a testament to the level head on your shoulders. So, what do you say, Sam? Will you accept my offer?”

“Yeah,” Sam exhales.

“Thank you.”

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean urges, placing a hand on Castiel’s back and guiding him to the guest bedroom, where he closes the door. “What the fuck was that?”

“We should not be sneaking around Sam,” Castiel replies. “It breeds distrust and gives us something unnecessary to worry about.”

“But I don’t want to drag Sam into this.”

“We won’t. But if he does not comprehend our actions, he might attempt to stop us, which can only be advantageous for Alastair.”

Dean sighs. “All right.” He draws closer to Castiel, his lips lingering close to Castiel’s, their breath mingling. “What about this?”

“This we shall keep to ourselves,” Castiel resolves. Sam would not approve, he suspects, and though he fears that this thing with Dean is wrong, they have gone too far for Castiel to give it up. His lips graze Dean’s; then he steps back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I know very little about fencing.
> 
> I made up the stuff about how vampires starve to death as well as what happens when they get sunburned. I hope it doesn't sound too dumb.
> 
> As ever, thanks so much for reading, and feedback is welcome!


	13. Shelter in the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains sexual content as well as a bit of torture and a couple of gory sights.

The basement rings with the clash of metal as Dean and Cas combat each other, Dean moving faster than his mind can process. Turns out trusting his instincts is the key. Dean knocks Cas’s sword out of his grip and whoops in triumph.

“I might resort to unleashing my full force next time,” Cas pants. With appreciation, Dean notes how tightly Cas’s sweat-soaked white dress shirt clings to his torso.

“That _was_ your full force,” Dean alleges, beaming.

“No. But I do believe it equates with that of most of Alastair’s nest.”

“So what’re ya sayin’? You’re better than most vampires?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Yeah, right. Braggart.”

“Benny and I had to be if we were going to hunt other vampires. I do not mean that I _am_ the best. Alastair, for one, is more skillful than I. As was Benny.”

Thunder booms overhead. They scramble upstairs and discover that it has grown eerily dark outside. Lightning periodically punctuates the sky, flashing through the atmosphere and illuminating the room around them. Rain pounds on the roof. “And it was almost time to go home,” Dean sighs.

“We can still do so, if you wish,” Cas opines.

Dean studies the torrential rain outside and spots what he suspects are dime-sized hailstones. “I don’t think so. It’s rainin’ cats and dogs out there.”

Cas joins him by the window and squints. “I do not see any cats or dogs.”

Dean rolls his eyes. For a guy who’s been on this earth for over two centuries, Cas definitely has a poor grasp of slang. “It’s just an expression,” he replies. “Besides. I don’t wanna take my baby out in that.” He winces, realizing that the Impala is exposed to the elements. “You think she’s gonna be okay?”

Cas dons a reassuring smile. If Dean hadn’t grown accustomed to Cas’s mannerisms, he wouldn’t have detected the change in facial expression. “I’m sure she will be fine, Dean.”

Dean draws an arm around Cas’s shoulders and they remain silent for a while, just watching the storm. Dean massages Cas’s far shoulder, and Cas’s muscles gradually relax. The domesticity of the moment hits him, and it makes him nervous. He walks away from the window and sinks into the couch. “So, we’re spending the night here, yeah?”

Cas settles into the couch next to him. “If you wish.”

Dean grabs the remote control from the coffee table and flips channels until he stumbles onto _Family Guy_. It’ll do. Dean laughs at the jokes, but Cas is quiet. At the commercial break, Cas says, “I do not understand this program.”

No wonder. What with all the references to pop culture, the whole thing must fly over Cas’s head. He’s trying to figure out how to explain the show when a siren blares. He and Cas jump at the sound. A weather alert appears on the screen, complete with radar and a meteorologist. He and Cas view the weather report, attention rapt, waiting for the meteorologist to mention where the tornado is. Finally, he announces that the tornado will soon be near their town.

“Fuckin’ Kansas weather,” Dean gripes.

“Should we go into the basement?” Cas asks.

“Yeah.”

In the basement, they settle on the floor. After a second, Cas bounds up, and Dean calls, “What’re you doin’?”

Cas returns with Dean’s old phone, the battery long dead. “Here,” he mutters as he hands the phone to Dean. “I meant to give this back to you, but I kept forgetting.”

Dean pecks Cas on the lips and laughs. Cas frowns at him in confusion, and Dean explains, “I don’t need it anymore. I got a new one.”

Cas looks dejected. “Oh.”

“Thanks, though. Hey, maybe I can give it to you.”

“I don’t know how to use that contraption.”

“I’ll teach ya. It might be useful if we’re not together and we need to talk to each other.”

“Okay.”

Dean shows Cas basic phone functions, their fingertips brushing as Dean demonstrates and Cas practices. When Cas seems to have mastered the skills, Dean slides the phone a few inches across the floor, pushes Cas flat on his back, and places his lips on Cas’s. As their tongues embrace, Dean undoes Cas’s belt and slips Cas’s pants and boxers down. Dean hasn’t given anyone a blow job since his younger, more experimental days, but he figures he still knows the trick.

“Dean, what are you—oooh,” Cas gasps, throwing his head back at the sensation of Dean’s tongue on his dick, his dark hair sinfully messy, his blue eyes darkened by lust.

“I want you to fuck my mouth, Cas,” Dean growls.

“Yes, Dean,” Cas breathes. Dean licks the precum off of Cas’s tip then takes him about halfway in. He’s thorough in his ministrations, attending to every spot inside Cas’s mouth. “Fuck, Dean,” Cas whispers, planting both hands in Dean’s hair. “Yes, yes, _yes_.” He tugs at Dean’s hair, his grip punishing as he shoves deeper into Dean’s mouth. Dean can’t get enough of Cas like this, hips thrusting rhythmically, pleasure heating up his skin. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” Cas chants, the syllable a litany. Dean sucks Cas’s cock as if he is a thirsty man guzzling water. Cas’s hips stutter beautifully, beatifically, and a shitload of cum pours into Dean’s mouth. Dean chokes before he manages to swallow all of it.

Dean lays down next to Cas, studying this handsome man—vampire, whatever—beside him. When his breathing returns to normal, Cas eyes Dean and asks, “Did I hurt you? I heard you—” Cas’s face reddens.

“’M fine, Cas,” Dean mumbles. He props himself up on his elbow and smooths a hand over Cas’s perfect hipbones, up under his shirt and over his chest. Cas’s build may be slight, but firm muscles ripple underneath his skin.

Dean’s dick stands to attention, and he shoves down his pants and boxers. He grips his cock, but Cas pushes his hand away before he can get started.

“Let me,” Cas insists, the words an echo of that strange night several weeks ago, back when all Dean had known of Cas was that he was one gorgeous motherfucker. Cas’s hand strips over Dean’s shaft, expertly milking Dean. Dean moans as he thrusts into Cas’s fist, chest tingling where Cas caresses his skin. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean groans. He wishes this ecstasy could last forever. He delays his orgasm for as long as he can, but his body is impatient. He comes in Cas’s hand, mewling, “Castiel.” Then again, so soft that he’s not sure it leaves his lips, “Castiel.” He doesn’t like how vulnerable he sounds. Dean’s eyes bug at the sight of Cas licking his hand clean, tongue kitten-like.

Cas kisses him gently as he comes down. When their lips part, they rest their foreheads against each other. Dean senses Cas’s wry amusement. “What?” he prompts.

Cas’s lips travel down to Dean’s earlobe, where he nibbles as he rumbles, “I can taste myself on you.”

“Me, too. Um. I mean, I taste me on you.”

“I think I like it.” When his lips reach Dean’s clavicle, he sucks on the sensitive spot, and Dean whimpers. “But I like the way you taste better. Do you know—” His tongue and teeth sweep over the developing hickey. “—that I could break your skin so easily?” A fingertip prods the fading scar on Dean’s neck. “Bite into you. Your blood tastes so fuckin’ good, Dean.”

Damn, that makes Dean’s dick hard all over again. “I bet your blood tastes better,” Dean responds. He bites into the side of Cas’s neck just a little, not enough to draw blood, not yet, anyway. Cas catches Dean’s wrist and pulls back, keeping Dean at arm’s length.

“You mustn’t do that, Dean,” Cas warns.

“Why not?”

“It will make you like me.”

“Huh?”

“You will turn into a vampire.” Cas’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips before he continues. “I should have told you about this, but it never occurred to me. If a vampire drinks your blood, and you also drink a vampire’s blood, then you are turned.”

“Oh.” Bummer.

Cas releases Dean’s wrist, and Dean attempts to rub out the sting. He notes the burgeoning bruise. Cas kisses it and gazes up at Dean with apologetic eyes.

“All better,” Dean murmurs.

xxxxxxxxxx

When the tornado warning expires, Castiel and Dean tramp upstairs. According to the news report, the tornado never touched down. Nonetheless, it’s still raining hard. After Dean calls Sam and tells him they’re spending the night at the cabin, they each take a shower then indulge in a quick dinner. Castiel drinks blood leftover from his lunch while Dean finds an old bag of chips to munch on.

“You can have the bed,” Castiel offers once it grows late. “I will sleep on the couch.” It’s odd, but Castiel now regularly keeps to a human sleeping schedule without thinking anything of it.

“How ’bout we share the bed?” Dean suggests, his tone self-conscious.

Castiel would like that, but it doesn’t seem feasible. “It is a twin bed, Dean,” he points out. “We will not both fit.”

“But what about that one time? You remember, I had a dream—” Dean flushes.

Oh. Dean’s nightmare. Yes, he recalls the night very well. “It would be a tight squeeze.”

“I don’t care. You?”

“No.”

They lie on their sides, Castiel behind Dean. When Castiel wraps his arms around him, Dean grumbles, “Why do I have to be the little spoon?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Castiel murmurs, lips brushing against Dean’s neck as he speaks.

“It’s what we’re doing now.”

“Ah,” Castiel exhales. Dean makes the concept sound obvious, but he’s still not sure he understands.

Dean drifts off in his arms, and Castiel contemplates matters. He’s surprised Dean feels comfortable enough to do this, sleep in the same bed. Not that Castiel has any complaints. Since they live with Sam, this is probably the only opportunity they’ll ever have to do it.

He castigates himself for earlier, when he got carried away in the post-coital moment. He had never planned to _actually_ break Dean’s skin, just tease him about it. He had enjoyed the challenge of scouring teeth across Dean’s skin without cracking it.

But then Dean had attempted to mirror his actions. Castiel had never dreamed that such a thing would happen. After all, drinking blood never fails to disgust humans. Dean himself had been disgusted when he first discovered Castiel’s secret.

They had narrowly avoided accidentally turning Dean. He would have to monitor their actions more carefully.

Dean’s even breathing calms him. He closes his eyes and falls into a dreamless sleep.

Until he dreams about an earthquake—

His eyes pop open. Oh. Not a dream. Dean is thrashing in his arms. “Dean,” he whispers, but Dean doesn’t react. He puts his lips to Dean’s ear and yells, “Dean!”

Dean slaps a hand to the ear and exclaims, “What the fuck, Cas!” Dean shifts around to face him. The fine tremble in Dean’s limbs indicates how much the nightmare has affected him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Just a dumb dream.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.” Castiel gazes at him. “Fuck, man, don’t look at me like that.” Castiel ignores him. “Fine,” Dean sighs. “It was about the fire.”

“Fire?”

“Yeah. Mom and Dad didn’t make it out, and it was all my fault.”

“How is it your fault?”

“’Cause. I was supposed to be visiting them when it happened, but I was at Lisa’s instead.” His eyes shift away from Castiel’s. “My ex,” he explains. He emits a bitter laugh. “I was so damn fucked up after that; she couldn’t deal with it. I don’t blame her.”

“I’m sorry.” He massages Dean’s knuckles with a thumb. He has the selfish thought that he’s not _too_ sorry about the breakup since Dean is his now. “But how would that make it your fault?”

“Don’t you see? If I’d’ve been there, I could’ve saved them.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. That does not make what happened your fault.”

“That’s what Sammy says.”

“He’s right.” Castiel kisses Dean’s brow, but he senses that Dean hasn’t mentioned everything. “What are you leaving out?” he queries.

“What? Nothing!”

“Don’t lie to me.” When did he learn to read Dean so well?

“After the fire, it was you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You. And Alastair.”

“Oh.” That stuns him. He rubs Dean’s back and says, “I’m here, Dean.”

“I know. It’s just—” Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s temple and hums a tune he once heard in Dean’s car. “Where’d you learn that?” Dean asks, startled.

“You.”

“That’s weird.”

“What?”

“You pickin’ that song. ‘Hey, Jude.’ Mom used to sing that to me.”

“Oh.” Here he was trying to soothe Dean, and somehow he’d chosen a song that stirred further memories. “Should I stop?”

Dean nuzzles Castiel’s neck. “No.”

So he hums until Dean goes back to sleep.

The nightmare shows how much Dean must care for Castiel. Enough to fear the idea of him being hurt. He feels guilty for encouraging Dean’s affections. He’s afraid that it will only lead to Dean himself getting hurt.

He cares very much for Dean as well. It’s different than the way he cared about Benny, but he doesn’t know how exactly.

xxxxxxxxxx

Every night, Dean and Castiel cruise the streets looking for any sign of Alastair or his nest. They agree that the approach is inefficient, but neither of them can think of a better way to proceed. All told, between that and training, they sleep for only four hours a day. Sometimes, Dean grows cranky. He sustains himself on caffeine, but Castiel is unaffected by the sleeping schedule.

On a night that begins like any other, they finally stumble upon something.

Dean is chugging espresso while Castiel concentrates on their surroundings. Any little thing could be important. When they pass by the local high school, Castiel notices two familiar figures stalking toward a car in the parking lot. The individuals yank a teenaged boy and girl out of the car.

“Dean, turn around!” Castiel shouts.

“What the—” Dean mutters. He executes a U-turn. When he reaches the high school, Castiel yells, “Stop!”

“Do you see that?” Castiel prompts. Bela sinks her teeth into the girl’s throat, and Dixon bangs the boy’s head against the car.

“Holy shit!” Dean exclaims. Dean swings his door open, but Castiel places an arm on his shoulder, arresting the movement. “What’re we waitin’ for?”

“You take Dixon; I’ll take Bela,” Castiel decides. He snakes an arm into the backseat and retrieves two swords. “Don’t forget this.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” They exit the Impala and jog toward the vampires and teenagers. “What’s up, dickheads!” Dean hollers.

Dixon drops the boy, and Bela glances up. Their eyes widen at the sight of Castiel. Dean attacks, and Castiel does the same. The boy stares, his mouth hanging open.

“Take her and leave!” Castiel shouts to the boy, nodding at the girl on the ground. The boy scoops her up, jumps into his car, and speeds away.

“Alastair will not be pleased,” Bela says as they spar. “You scared off our toys.” Castiel ignores her. “Ah, well. Since you’re still alive, he can play with _you_.” A flashback catches Castiel off guard. Alastair stripping away his skin, chuckling—

Bela traps Castiel against a wall and smirks. “I’m taking you home to papa.” She smiles maliciously.

Gloating has always been Bela’s weakness. Her celebration is premature, for Castiel still has his sword in hand.

He knocks her sword to the ground. She bends down to pick it up, but Castiel kicks it away and pins her to the brick wall. He places the sword against her throat and demands, “Tell me where Alastair is.”

“As if,” she replies nonchalantly.

“Tell me, or I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, is that what you told Lilith before you killed her anyway?” She flutters her eyes in mock innocence. “I’m not stupid, Castiel.”

He presses the sword against her neck until globules of blood appear. Bela hisses. “I can make your death extremely painful,” Castiel says.

Bela releases a full-bodied laugh. “Castiel, lover of humanity, is going to torture me? I think not, especially not with your boyfriend watching.” Castiel blinks. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you were looking at him.”

“Don’t be so presumptuous,” Castiel snaps. She has no right to bring up Dean. “And yes, I would.” He puts more pressure on the sword, and Bela whimpers. “Now. Tell me. Where. Is. Alastair.”

Bela spits in his face as frantic footsteps approach. Dean arrives and points a bloody sword at Bela. Castiel can’t help but feel proud of Dean for making his first kill. “He asked you a question, bitch,” Dean snarls.

“Oh, no, he didn’t _ask_.” She bats her eyelashes at Dean and tsks. “Your boyfriend is so impolite.” She leans into Dean’s personal space and says, exaggerating her sultry British accent, “Why settle for him when you can have me?”

Dean slaps her, and her head recoils against the wall. Dean’s eyes harden. The resulting expression frightens Castiel. Dean wipes his sword on Bela’s jacket, and she glares at him. He rolls up one of her sleeves and settles the blade at the crook of her elbow. He slashes from there to her wrist, over and over, chipping away at her skin. Bela hisses in pain.

“Dean!” Castiel sputters. He’d never imagined Dean would behave in this fashion.

“You. Will. Talk.” Dean articulates through clenched teeth, never ceasing the motion of his sword.

“Okay, okay,” Bela squeals. “956 Lawrence Street.”

“What?”

“956 Lawrence Street.”

“You tellin’ the truth?”

“Yes!”

Dean raises the sword to her cheek. “Don’t know if I’m finished, though.” Castiel shudders at his feral grin. “I’d like to do somethin’ to that pretty face of yours.”

Bela’s eyes fill with tears, and this is enough. Castiel doesn’t want to watch Dean in this guise. He slices through Bela’s neck, and her head rolls to the ground.

“What the fuck, Cas?” Dean grouses.

“She gave us the information. We were done with her.”

“ _I_ wasn’t.”

Castiel meets Dean’s vacant eyes. “Why did you do that?”

“What?”

“Peel off her skin.”

“It’s what she did to you,” Dean declares fiercely. “She did, right? When you were with Alastair?”

“They all did,” Castiel acknowledges quietly.

A glint of fondness enters Dean’s eyes. “I guess it just made me a little crazy.” He looks apologetic.

Castiel pecks the corner of Dean’s mouth. “It’s all right. Let’s go check out the address she gave us.”

“’Kay.”

The location is in a modest but well-kept neighborhood. Dean parks at the corner, half a street away from the house.

“Wait here,” Castiel tells Dean.

“But—”

“I’ll come get you,” Castiel assures him. “I just want to scope it out first.”

“Fine.”

When he reaches the house, Castiel eyes the black truck in the driveway. He doesn’t recall any of Alastair’s nest members driving it. Alastair himself drives a red Mercedes Benz. He tiptoes around the exterior of the house. In the backyard, he peers into a window, squinting to see in between the slats of the blinds. Nothing. He looks in all the windows, garnering the same result each time. The place seems empty. Perhaps it’s a trap. But why would it be? Alastair and his nest don’t know that Castiel is alive.

He picks the lock and steps inside the living room. Spotless. Nothing seems out of the ordinary, so he texts Dean (an activity much more difficult than picking the lock) and says he should come to the house. Maybe he’ll notice something Castiel is missing. While he waits for Dean, he detects a rotten smell coming from the kitchen. He walks into the room and flips on the light.

And gasps at the scene before him.

Four mutilated bodies, clearly drained of blood. A man and woman, a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. A girl of about eight.

Alastair has definitely been here.

“Cas, why’d you come insi—Jesus Christ!” Dean exclaims as he joins Castiel in the kitchen. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” Dean runs out of the room and returns a minute later, the sleeve of his jacket hovering over his lips. His hands curl into fists. “That motherfucker’s going to _pay_.”

“Yes,” Castiel exhales. He kneels beside the bodies and examines them. “They’ve been dead for two days,” Castiel announces as he stands up, the bottom of his trenchcoat spinning with him. “I don’t think Alastair, or any of them, are staying here anymore.”

“How do you know they’re not comin’ back?”

“It doesn’t match Alastair’s M.O. When he finishes with his victims, he disposes of the bodies in random locations. That is how the police find them.”

“Oh.”

“Bela gave us outdated information. Smart.”

Dean looks puzzled. “Smart?”

“She knew we would kill her no matter what she said.”

“So, back to square one, huh?”

“What do squares have to do with anything?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “God, Cas. I’ve gotta get you a slang dictionary.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Turns out they don’t have to wait that much longer for a break. A couple of days after the incident at the high school (and discovering the dead family that now haunts Dean’s nightmares), Cas recognizes some guy named Crowley. They follow him at a discreet distance until he enters a nondescript clapboard house.

“We need to find a way to get close without alerting them of our presence,” Cas asserts.

“I’ll park a bit down the street,” Dean says.

“Yes. That would be good.” After Dean pulls to the curb and shuts off his baby, Cas muses, “Our approach will have to be stealthy. I am not sure if you should come.”

“I can be stealthy!” Dean exclaims. “I’m a fuckin’ cop, for cryin’ out loud. And not the Keystone kind.”

“Oh, I know the Keystone Kops,” Cas enthuses. “Benny and I used to see the shorts at the movie palace.”

“Who the fuck are the Keystone Kops?” Seriously, who knew that was actually a thing?

“Don’t tell me you don’t understand your own reference,” Cas laughs. “Back before the talkies—”

“What?”

“Talking motion pictures. The Keystone Kops starred in a famous series of comedies during the silent film era. They were known for being incompetent policemen.”

“Oh.”

Cas relaxes into one of those familiar small smiles. “I miss them. They were quite amusing.”

Dean allows Cas a moment to reminisce before positing, “So, we’re gonna sneak around outside the house, yeah?”

“I suppose I cannot prevent you from coming,” Cas sighs.

“Nope.”

“Very well.” He opens his door. “Let’s go.”

Dean follows Cas down the street. When they approach Alastair’s house, Dean is about to whisper a question when Cas shushes him with a finger to his lips. Fortunately, Cas removes his finger before Dean’s mind wanders into naughty territory.

Cas skirts the perimeter of the house with Dean on his heels. He stops beside a window whose blinds aren’t drawn all the way down, leaving a thin space between the window ledge and the bottom of the blinds. At eye level, to boot. Cas peers inside, and Dean does the same. He sees Alastair, Meg, and some other dark-haired woman deep in discussion. Dean can’t hear a damn thing, but Cas cocks his head as if he’s listening. He’s _not_ jealous of Cas’s skills, Dean tells himself.

After a few minutes, Cas tugs on Dean’s sleeve, and they return to the Impala. “What were they sayin’?” Dean asks as he switches on the ignition.

“Not much of consequence,” Cas replies. “Alastair was praising Ruby for finding their latest hideout.”

“Ruby? That was the other chick’s name?”

“Yes.”

An uneasy feeling pricks Dean’s gut. “You don’t think anyone was livin’ there, do ya? That they, y’know . . . ” _Found another family to fuck with._

“No. From what I gathered, there was a for-sale sign in the front yard. They simply discarded it. Alastair said he prefers this arrangement because it removes the possibility of acquaintances dropping by.”

Dean wonders why Alastair would care about that. Obviously, the dude has no qualms about killing whoever he gets his hands on. Is there some pattern to how he chooses his victims? Nobody at the station could see one. Could it be too obscure for anyone to notice?

Nah. Cas is a smart dude, and he probably understands vampire logic. Even he doesn’t see a pattern, however.

xxxxxxxxxx

The night after they discover Alastair’s new headquarters, Castiel and Dean take Sam to the house with them, Dean’s protests ineffectual over Sam’s reminder that Castiel promised. But more important to Castiel, he always honors his word. Besides, alleviating Sam’s suspicions will benefit their endeavor.

Castiel fears that Sam, with his unusually tall build, will not be able to stay quiet. He’s still not even sure that Dean is truly quiet enough, for that matter. What if Alastair is playing a ruse on them? What if he did hear Dean and Castiel last night and only pretended not to? What if he lulls them into a false sense of security only to capture Castiel again, but this time with Dean in tow? He doubts he can endure that again. And if it were to happen to Dean, he would shatter.

When they find the pertinent window, Dean taps Sam on the shoulder, and all three of them look inside.

This time, they are met with a horrific sight. A balding middle-aged man has been strung up in the center of the room, tubes attached to his body. Blood flows through the tubes down to a bowl. He glances at Dean, who has grown pale. He knows that Dean is remembering the same thing he is, that night at the warehouse when their paths first crossed. Three bodies hanging from the railings, exactly like this one. Alastair’s and Azazel’s fangs are buried in the man’s neck as Gordon and Ruby watch them feed.

Sam surges forward, but Dean plants two hands on his shoulders, stilling him. Castiel eyes the car down the street, and the Winchesters follow him to the Impala. They enter silently, Castiel ceding the front seat to Sam.

“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam shouts. “We can’t just leave that guy there!”

“You think I want to?” Dean snaps.

“It would be no use, Sam,” Castiel expounds. “There were four of them and three of us. Two human, I might add.—”

“So?”

“So, we would have lost. At best, we would have ended up in the same position as that man. At worst, well—” Castiel breaks off, shuddering at the recollection of his time with Alastair. Dean turns around and gives him a sympathetic look.

“Well, what?” Sam prompts. Castiel huddles into himself and doesn’t answer.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean retorts. “I told you that Alastair did all sorts a shit to Cas.”

“We need to look at the long picture—” Castiel continues.

“Big picture, Cas,” Dean corrects as he begins driving.

“Yes, big picture. Stopping Alastair. Because if we fail, he might never be stopped.”

“Oh." Sam proclaims, “I want to help.”

“What?”

“Join you guys.”

“Hell, no,” Dean replies.

“I agree,” Castiel says. He had never wanted to drag Sam into this, merely enlist his support.

“Fuck that,” Sam retaliates. “That bastard hurt my brother.”

“You don’t have time,” Dean argues. “You’ve got a job—”

“Like that matters.”

“You cannot devote as much time to the task as Dean and I,” Castiel puts in. “Perhaps you can help in a smaller way.”

“Like what?” Sam scoffs.

“Dean and I can inform you of our discoveries. You are clever, Sam. You might see things that we do not. It would be a vital contribution.”

“I’ll think about it,” Sam concedes. His body still bristles with rage, but at least Castiel has convinced him to consider a less dangerous option.

Now that he thinks about it, Castiel does not like Dean’s involvement, either. What if he gets hurt? As a human, Dean is more fragile than Castiel.

But after Castiel’s imprisonment with Alastair, Dean had motivated him to pursue his mission again. Without him, Castiel would have given up. Dean is an essential part of the enterprise now, and Castiel cannot change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that the vampires always have swords when they appear, so I guess in this verse vampires regularly carry swords around.
> 
> I hope there aren't too many "Cas doesn't get slang" jokes in this chapter. As I was writing it, when a slang phrase came to mind, I kept thinking, "Would Cas understand that? I'm not sure."
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading! I always appreciate readers taking time to check out this story.


	14. Tracing the Pattern

When they return home, they settle in the living room, Cas claiming the recliner while Sam and Dean share the couch. Sam stretches out his long legs and asks, “So, what’s your plan?”

“What plan?” Dean responds.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of a plan.”

“We have been so focused on locating Alastair that we haven’t thought much beyond that part,” Cas admits.

“You _are_ gonna need some type of plan. You know that, right?”

“’Course, Sam, we’re not stupid,” Dean grouses.

“Perhaps you can help us think of one, Sam,” Cas suggests. Yeah, Sam can help them brainstorm, but Dean’s not lettin’ his little bro out in the field. Thankfully, Cas is sensible enough to agree with him. If they refuse to let Sam come with them, Sam will stay safe.

“Alastair’s nest possesses too many vampires for us to confront them all at once,” Cas says.

“How many are there?” Sam inquires.

“Only six,” Dean answers brightly.

“‘Only six,’” Cas echoes, tone sarcastic. “Because that’s such a paltry sum.”

“Hey, it’s better than the ten we started out with,” Dean points out.

Sam’s eyes widen. “Ten? What happened to the other four?” Realization dawns in his eyes. “Oh, yeah, I guess you mentioned those two at Kohl’s. What about the other two?”

“Cas and I took care of ’em,” Dean boasts.

“What does that mean?”

“Ganked ’em.”

“They were at the high school,” Cas chimes in. Dean recalls the news the morning after the incident, Cassie Robinson reporting that two decapitated corpses had been found at the high school. Still pretty as ever, that Cassie. Back in high school, she’d been his first serious girlfriend.

Not that she holds a candle to Cas, of course.

And those teenagers he and Cas had rescued—well, they must not have gone to the police. Otherwise, Victor would be calling for an explanation.

According to the news, the police now suspect two distinct serial killers are at work, one specializing in decapitation, one in torture and mutilation. Many citizens are now too frightened to leave home after dark. It would almost be amusing if it wasn’t real life. Besides, it’s probably a good thing more people are stayin’ home these days. It gives Alastair less people to victimize.

Sam’s mouth hangs open. “How could I not know about that,” he mutters to himself. He raises his voice to address Dean and Cas. “That’s an idea, then.”

“What?” Dean prompts.

“Confront each one individually.”

“Wipe them out one by one.” Dean grins. “I like that.”

“That might work,” Cas opines. “My previous plan, before Dean became involved, consisted of eliminating Alastair. I theorized that the others would turn on each other afterward. Alastair keeps them together.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam says.

“But I don’t think it will work, not anymore,” Cas continues. “They’ve lost five nest members because of me. And Dean. No matter what happens to Alastair, they will want revenge.” Quietly, he adds, “I’m not sure if we can defeat Alastair even if we isolate him. He is one of the most powerful vampires I’ve ever met. For this very reason, he has acquired many followers.”

“So you’ll have to find some way to outsmart Alastair. Something not involving combat,” Sam concludes.

“Precisely.”

“Until then, maybe we should concentrate on eliminating the other vampires.” “We”? Sam’s not gonna be a part of this freakin’ enterprise.

“I’m all for that, man,” Dean responds, “but how’s that gonna help us with Alastair?”

“By weeding out any threat posed by the others. Cutting off his support. Undermining his morale.”

“Or it might just piss him off so much he fucks with Cas again.” _Rapes him_. Dean’s jaw tightens.

“Or hurts you, Dean. Treats you as he did me,” Cas says, fear coloring his voice, pain overtaking his blue eyes. He chews his lip for a minute then hypothesizes, “But it might prove beneficial. Fewer supporters means fewer vampires to do his bidding. To stalk and kidnap victims.”

“To feed,” Dean mumbles.

“That, too.”

“So, whaddaya propose we do? Stake out Alastair’s house of horrors until we get one of them alone?”

“We could try it.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean and Cas have been monitoring Alastair’s house for the past two nights, but so far Alastair hasn’t made a move. Neither of them can puzzle out why. What’s Alastair’s game? One of the vampires is bound to search for a new victim sometime, and when they do, he and Cas will be ready for them.

Dean and Cas are venturing to Alastair’s again tonight, after dinner. Sam didn’t join them for the meal; he’s out with Sarah. _Those two are startin’ to get serious_ , Dean realizes. Just another reason to keep Sam as far away from the Alastair business as possible.

Dean’s grown accustomed to dinners alone with Cas. Half the time Sam’s gone with Sarah, and half the time he eats in the living room. Seeing Cas drink blood ruins his appetite, he claims. Cas offers to consume the stuff in his room, but Sam insists that he shouldn’t. Ever the polite one, Sam. Once, Cas did take his glass to his room, hoping to encourage Sam to eat supper with Dean. Sam still took his meal in the living room, however, so the next evening Cas rejoined Dean at the table.

Watching Cas slurp down blood used to squick Dean out, but he got over it quickly. ’Course, a part of him thought it was hot right from the start, too.

So Dean pays Cas’s blood no mind as he chows down on the Panda Express he picked up on the way back from Cas’s cabin.

The doorbell rings, interrupting their companionable silence. Dean ignores Cas’s startled expression and swallows his bite of orange chicken before traipsing into the living room. He peers through the peephole and sees friggin’ _Jo_ , of all people, with a cardboard box in her hands, her face impatient. _Shit. If she sees Cas . . ._

Dean opens the door a sliver, and Jo shifts her eyes up to him.

“Hey, Dean,” she says as she pushes inside. _So much for tryin’ to keep her out_. She marches past him and into the kitchen. “Oh, my God!” she exclaims. Dean shuffles into the kitchen to find a wide-eyed Jo staring at Cas. Her eyes dart to Dean. “What the fuck?! I thought this guy was dead.” She deposits the box on the table and crosses her arms over her chest.

“What’re you doin’ here, Jo?” Dean asks.

“Nice to see you, too, Dean-o,” Jo retorts.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I _did_. But you didn’t answer.” Dean pats his pockets and sure enough, his cell phone isn’t there. Damn. He must’ve left it in his room. Jo pries open the lid of the box. “Mom wanted me to bring you one of her cherry pies,” she explains, gesturing at the item in the box.

“Oh. Awesome. Tell her thanks.”

She turns back to Cas. “Now, who the hell are you, and how’re you still alive?”

“Jo!” Dean admonishes.

Cas extends a hand and pastes on a tentative smile. “My name is Castiel.” Jo glares at the hand, and Cas removes it after a minute, frowning.

Jo’s eyes bounce between the two of them. “Is anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?” Cas squirms uneasily in his chair, and Dean doesn’t say anything. Jo sighs. “Fine. I’m gonna take a piss, and when I come back, I want some frickin' answers.” Jo stalks toward the bathroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Jo Harvelle,” Dean announces with a flourish.

“Who is she?” Cas inquires.

“A cop. Like me. Remember, I told you that she was with me when I found you?” Realization appears to dawn on Cas, and he nods. “Well. That night, I told Jo I took you to the hospital. Then I told the boss that you died and your body was stolen.” Self-conscious, Dean runs a hand through his hair. “It was the only way I could think of to get them off your trail.”

“So what are we going to tell her?”

“The truth?”

Cas’s countenance darkens. “ _No_.”

“But—”

“She won’t believe it.” Cas drums his fingers against the table, clearly nervous.

“She will,” Dean asserts.

“She’ll hate me.”

“No, she won’t. Jo’s cool. We grew up together. She’s kinda like a sister.”

“Sam hated me until only a few days ago.” Cas frowns. “I think he still hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s just findin’ it hard to get used to ya.” Cas snorts.

The toilet flushes, and Jo exits the bathroom. She lingers on the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen and prompts, “All right, boys. What’ve you got to say for yourselves?”

Dean glances at Cas, who gives a curt nod, his eyes resigned. _Well, here goes nothin’._ Dean waves a thumb at Cas and announces, “Cas here is a vampire.”

Jo rolls her eyes. “Ha ha. Very funny. Now how ’bout the real story.”

“Show her, Cas.”

Cas concentrates, and Dean wants to burst out laughing at Cas’s ridiculous expression. It looks like he’s pooping. Somehow, Dean restrains himself. Cas opens his mouth wide, and teeth morph into fangs. It turns him into something frightening—frightening yet hot.

These days, Dean’s brain seems to constantly associate “Cas” with “hot, gorgeous, fuck I want that.”

Jo jumps. “Holy shit!” she exclaims. Cas retracts his fangs, and his face returns to normal. Jo jabs an accusatory finger at Dean. “What the hell is wrong with you? You think it’s a good idea to just let a vampire roam around willy-nilly?”

Dean scowls at her. “Don’t talk about Cas like he’s not here, Jo.”

Cas sighs. “I’m sorry. I knew this was a bad idea. If you think—”

Dean claps a hand over Cas’s mouth. “Shuddup, Cas,” he hisses. Dean removes his hand, wondering if he did that just to have an excuse for touching Cas’s lips. He turns back to Jo. “Cas’s one of the good guys.”

“A vampire that’s a good guy? As if this isn’t weird enough,” she mutters.

Dean gestures to the table. “Sit down and let us explain.”

“Fine.” Dean resumes his seat, and Jo joins him at the table. Cas sips from his glass, but then he bolts from the table and deposits the glass in the sink even though he hasn’t finished drinking and returns to the table.

“I’m waiting,” Jo gripes, tapping her foot on the linoleum impatiently.

“Uh. Yeah,” Dean mumbles. “You know that serial killer we’ve been chasin’ for the past few weeks?”

“Of course. It’s practically all we talk about down at the station.”

“Okay. Well. He’s a vampire, too.”

“You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

“He has a nest,” Cas contributes, his tone subdued. “With five other vampires.”

“Used to be nine. Or ten,” Dean says.

“Holy fuck!” Jo exclaims. She frowns. “What happened to the other five?”

“Cas.”

“And Dean,” Cas adds.

“So this is what you’ve been doin’? You know it's all sorts of illegal.”

“But the law doesn’t have any provisions for vampires, now does it?” Dean points out.

“Does it have provisions for the Greek gods?”

“I do not believe so,” Cas answers. Dean and Jo stare at him. “Oh. That was a rhetorical question.” He reddens. “I apologize. My social skills can be rather poor—”

“Don’t sweat it, Cas,” Dean urges. Cas’s brows furrow in confusion, and Dean amends, “Don’t worry about it.”

“So, how’d all this come about?” Jo inquires. “I mean, you and . . . is it Castiel?” Cas nods. “How’d you guys team up? How’d you find out ’bout the serial killer?”

Dean and Cas take turns narrating the story, beginning with Dean’s first encounter with Alastair followed by Cas rescuing him. They skip over the night Dean left the cabin, and Cas gives vague details about his time at Pontiac Baptist Church. They speak in generalities about the rest, up to the present moment.

“Huh,” Jo concludes. She bites her nails. “You better not be shittin’ me ’bout this.”

“We’re not,” Dean assures her. No one says anything for a while, and Dean recalls the other night, something Cas had said about Alastair not wanting people’s acquaintances dropping in on him. “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“You think there could be a pattern? That Alastair has a method for choosing his victims?”

“No. Why?”

“’Cause. Remember when you heard Alastair say he didn’t want people’s friends tryin’ to visit wherever he was stayin’?” Cas nods. “Why would he care? I mean, it’s not like he has scruples about killin' anybody.”

“Hmm. I would imagine that his reasoning relates to hunters more than anything.”

“Hunters?” says Jo.

“Yes. Vampire hunters.—”

“Someone who kills vampires? As in _Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter_?”

“I do not believe that Abraham Lincoln was a vampire hunter.”

“It’s a book, Cas. ’Course not,” Dean chimes in.

“Oh.” Embarrassed, Cas blushes once more. It’s an adorable look on him, Dean decides. “As I was saying. During my time with him, Alastair did express trepidation about hunters.” In a whisper, Cas adds, “Hence the reason he fled when the police showed up at the church.”

“Oh.” _Well, that sucks_. _Still, it’s possible that there’s a pattern, right?_ “I still think we should check for a pattern, though. Just in case.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

Dean gives Jo a meaningful look. “What?” she grumbles.

“Maybe you could get us copies of the police records?”

She scoots her chair back. “Nuh-uh. You know I could get into big trouble for that.”

“I know,” Dean acknowledges. “But if it helps us stop Alastair and his gang, isn’t it worth it?”

“Fine. But if this bites me in the ass, I’m blamin’ you.”

“Fair enough.”

xxxxxxxxxx

It almost feels like an intimate family gathering, what with all four of them seated around the table for Sunday brunch. Jo, who’s practically Dean’s sister. Sam, his brother, the only blood relative he has left. And Cas—what is Cas? They’ve grown close, but Dean doesn’t know how to define their relationship.

Jo had brought over copies of everything the police have on the serial killer, and the files are arrayed all over the table. A heaping plate of food sits in front of every individual: pancakes, bacon, eggs, all cooked by Dean himself. Cas had consumed his morning serving of blood as Dean prepared the food. Even though he doesn’t need food, Cas had insisted on eating with the others. (“It doesn’t hurt me to eat, Dean,” Cas had professed when Dean expressed skepticism. “Besides, I did eat food when you stayed at my cabin, if you recall.” True. “I want to try it, Dean. It smells so good,” Cas had practically begged. Dean huffed in amusement.)

“This is delicious, man,” Sam compliments after swallowing a mouthful of food.

“Yeah,” Jo agrees. “Who knew you could be such a domestic?”

“Hey, now,” Dean responds. “Don’t you go callin’ me _domestic_.” Jo and Sam giggle. Cas’s lips form a soft smile, and Dean can’t help but feel a little warm inside.

“It really is quite good, Dean,” Cas declares. “I have never had pancakes before. I think I like them.”

Man, that’s fuckin’ sad. Cas has been on this planet all these years without trying pancakes? Not that Cas has ever had the occasion to do so, Dean supposes.

Sam picks up a slip of paper. “Should we get started on these?” he asks. Trust Sammy to always get right down to business.

“Yeah. Let’s do that,” Dean replies. He and Jo grab a stack of papers. Cas savors a couple more bites before finally joining the effort.

“I am not sure what you expect to find, Dean,” Cas intones. “Even if a pattern exists, I do not think we will discover it by perusing these files.”

“Why not?” Dean responds.

“Because they do not provide a complete listing of Alastair’s victims.”

Dean lifts his eyes to Cas. “Whaddaya mean?”

“When I was . . . hunting Alastair, I saw him dispose of bodies that the police never found. And those three in the warehouse. I am sure you remember them. They were never found, either.”

“Dammit, that’s right,” Dean realizes.

“I am inclined to agree with your vampire,” Jo opines.

“He’s not ‘my vampire’!” Dean splutters. Seriously, what’s up with that? Sam had once used the same phrase as well.

Sam smirks and exchanges a significant glance with Jo. _What the fuck was that?_ Dean doesn’t dare look over at Cas, afraid of what he might see.

“Charlie’s a bona fide genius,” Jo resumes. “If there was a pattern, she’d’ve spotted it.”

“Maybe,” Dean mumbles.

They examine the documents for freakin’ _hours_ , but nada. Dean tosses his sheaf of papers to the table and groans. Jo and Cas wearily rub their eyes. Eager to accomplish something, Dean collects the dishes, rinses them, and deposits them in the sink.

“Aha!” Sam yells. Dean drops a plate and swears.

“Great, I almost broke the damn thing,” he hisses. “This better be good, Sam.”

“I think I got it, Dean,” Sam enthuses. “Some of the blanks are missing, so I could be wrong. But I think it has to do with location.”

Dean returns to the table. “How so?”

“There are three basic areas of town, right?”

“I guess.”

“So. He bounces around between them.”

“It ain’t that simple, Sam. Charlie would’ve noticed somethin’ like that.”

“That’s because it’s _not_ simple. He started with downtown and its immediate surroundings, taking one victim. Another on the outskirts of town, then another in the newer part of town. Then two from the newer part, two from the outskirts, two from downtown. Three from the outskirts, three from downtown, three from the newer part. And on and on.”

“That _is_ complex,” Jo ponders. “And not exactly how most people envision the town. We think of it in smaller increments. Neighborhoods.”

“If this _is_ the pattern,” Sam posits, “then I think his next target will be around downtown.”

“A smaller area to patrol than the other two,” Dean observes.

“Right.”

“Okay. So. How ’bout this? Cas, I drop you off at Alastair’s while I canvass downtown.”

“I do not think splitting up is wise, Dean,” Cas replies.

“I don’t, either,” says Sam. “How about I come with you, Dean?”

“I would volunteer to help, but I’m on duty tonight,” Jo inserts.

“Nah. I can handle it,” Dean says. “Right, Cas?”

Cas frowns. “I believe it best if Sam remains here, yes.”

“You can be backup,” Dean tells his brother before addressing Cas. “So, I’ll go downtown tonight, and you’ll go to Alastair’s. Is that a plan?”

Cas puts his lips to Dean’s ear and whispers, “I suppose I cannot dissuade you from this idea.”

“Nope.”

Cas straightens his posture and says, “Very well.”

xxxxxxxxxx

When Dean drops Cas off near Alastair’s, Dean tells him to phone if he needs any assistance. Cas coaxes the same promise from Dean. As he navigates downtown, Dean muses that this isn’t much different than being on the beat. Damn, he misses his job sometimes, but this is more important. It goes way beyond the conventional strictures of law and order.

Dean figures there’s a slim chance of stumblin’ into somethin’. As ever. He understands how cops can get bored enough to mess with people. Not that he’s ever done that. No siree.

Some parts of downtown are chock full of bars. Most of them are closed on Sunday nights, but a few of them aren’t, and Dean occasionally has to maneuver his baby through thick crowds.

And there—hey, that dude looks familiar.

Dean recognizes him as one of Alastair’s brood. Crowley.

Dean parallel parks the Impala near a bar so it blends in then follows the guy down a deserted alley. Crowley ceases mid-stride and whirls around, startling Dean. _How did he hear me?_

“Well, if it isn’t Officer Winchester,” Crowley simpers in an oily British accent. Dean doesn’t answer him, electing to attack straightaway. Crowley parries his strikes expertly, and before Dean knows what’s happening, his sword is far out of reach, and Crowley has trapped him against a wall.

Crowley tsks. “You humans think you’re so invincible. Until you find out you aren’t.” He brushes his blade down Dean’s middle, from his neck to his stomach. “I’d like to split you in two. See your guts spill out before I devour you.” Crowley licks his lips. “Sample the entrails before I _really_ get started.”

Dean shivers at the pure menace in Crowley’s voice. He shoves against Crowley, but Crowley easily repels his flailing attempts at escape. Crowley places the tip of his weapon at the base of Dean’s neck and presses down. Dean closes his eyes.

_Fuck, please, I don’t wanna die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to end a chapter on a cliffhanger sometime. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Feedback is welcome, and I appreciate your support!


	15. Baptized by Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been looking forward to this chapter, which means I'm quite nervous about it. Parts of it are just as I envisioned, and other parts are much different. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! I'm grateful for all feedback--comments, kudos, subscriptions, and bookmarks.

Inside Alastair’s living room, Alastair, Azazel, Meg, Gordon, and Ruby are discussing the recent deaths of four compatriots, and Alastair actually seems shaken. He is concerned that a group of elite vampire hunters may have discovered them and are now stalking the nest. It makes Castiel almost giddy with amusement, and he imagines Dean’s triumphant reaction upon hearing of this development

Alastair switches from voicing worry to berating the other four. How could they let Crowley go downtown alone, knowing the threat that lies out there? Why hadn’t any of them volunteered to help Crowley secure the next victim? They’re a bunch of lazy cowards, the lot of them.

So, Sam had been right. There’s a pattern to Alastair’s choices after all, and at this moment, Crowley is downtown, prowling for the next victim. And Dean—

Castiel must warn Dean. Crowley may not be the strongest vampire in Alastair’s brood, but he might be the cleverest. If Crowley somehow catches Dean off guard . . .

Castiel jogs down the street until he is far enough away so the other vampires won’t overhear him and dials Dean’s number. The phone rings interminably before going to voicemail. Dean had taught him that the voicemail function is for leaving messages, so Castiel briefly explains the situation before hanging up. But he is not comfortable with merely leaving a message. Unless he were in grave danger, Dean would answer. Castiel is certain. He calls Dean again, again, and a fourth time. Still, Dean does not answer.

Panic permeates Castiel’s bones. What if Dean is in trouble? What if Dean has already encountered Crowley? What if Crowley is harming him? Killing him, perhaps feeding off of him?

 _No_.

Castiel hotwires a nearby car and navigates toward downtown. He sends a silent apology to the owner along with a promise to borrow the vehicle for only a short time.

Downtown and its surrounding environs are comprised of a sizable few blocks, and Castiel does not know where to begin. He scans the area carefully as he drives, eyeing every nook and cranny. Then he hears it—a soft gasp, terrified. To his sharpened senses, it sounds remarkably like Dean. He peers into an alley and sees that Crowley has cornered a man against a wooden wall.

 _Dean_.

Castiel skids into a parking space and darts into the alley. Crowley’s lips are pressed to Dean’s collarbone, and Castiel can actually hear the slurp as Crowley greedily feeds. The world spins around Castiel.

Crowley holds up a hand and slurs, “I’ll be with you in a minute, sweetheart.”

“Crowley!” Castiel shouts as he draws his sword.

Dean’s body slumps to the ground as Crowley whirls around. “ _Castiel?!_ ” Crowley marvels.

Castiel’s mouth twists into a bitter semblance of a smile. “That’s right,” he hisses as he sweeps his sword toward Crowley’s neck. Crowley attempts to dodge the blade, but Castiel had calibrated his swing for just such an event, and Crowley’s head bounces to the ground.

“Dean?” Castiel ventures as he approaches the human. Blood dribbles from Dean’s clavicle onto his leather jacket, which has been thrown open. A clean slice runs from Dean’s breast to his waist, providing Castiel with a sickening glance at Dean’s insides. Blood pours from the wound, and Castiel just _knows_ , Dean has lost too much of it—

“Cas,” Dean whimpers, eyes glassy. Castiel stares down, aghast that Dean is still conscious. “I don’t wanna . . . don’t . . . wanna die.”

Castiel kneels beside him. “I don’t want you to die, either,” Castiel laments.

Tears stream down Dean’s cheeks. Castiel feels his own eyes water as he observes the light gradually fading from Dean’s eyes. “It hurts,” Dean exhales.

Castiel seizes on an idea. It’s wrong, he knows, but he does not want to be alone, not again. Not after having just found Dean. He holds his sword over his wrist and declares, “Dean, listen to me.”

“Yeah?” Dean breathes, the sound shallow.

Castiel cuts into his wrist with the blade, and blood flows from the opening. “You can live.—” Dean coughs out a mirthless laugh. “No, you can. But at a price. You will be damned. Like me.”

“Huh?”

“You can leave the world now, in peace. Or you can become as I am.” Castiel averts his eyes. “A vampire.”

He shouldn’t be offering this to Dean. The right thing would be to let Dean die, let his soul depart this realm and remain pristine.

Not defile it, just as Castiel’s soul is defiled.

“It is your choice,” Castiel continues. His wrist, drenched in blood, lingers several inches above Dean’s mouth.

Even if he is cloaking the offer as a choice, Castiel is still doing the wrong thing.

Dean opens his mouth and lunges forward, though not far enough.

Nonetheless, Dean’s intent is clear.

Castiel presses his wrist to Dean’s mouth, panting as Dean swallows his blood. He can feel the life force draining out of him as Dean drinks. Castiel lets Dean have as much blood as he desires. Though the process exhausts Castiel, a spike of ecstasy, almost orgasmic, settles inside him. Building, building, and he never wants it to stop.

After having gorged himself, Dean passes out, and Castiel snaps back into alertness. Castiel needs to get Dean out of here before he awakes. As a new vampire, he will be unable to control himself when he starts to crave. Castiel digs into Dean’s pockets until he finds the keys to the Impala. Dean hates the idea of anyone other than himself driving his baby, but Castiel hopes Dean would understand just this once. He lugs Dean to the car and lays him out on the backseat before speeding to the Winchesters’ house. When he arrives, he cradles Dean in his arms and dashes inside.

“What the—?” Sam mutters as Castiel rushes by. Once in Dean’s bedroom, Castiel tosses Dean onto his bed and turns around to find Sam confronting him. “What’s goin’ on?” Sam asks.

Castiel’s eyes flit to Dean then back to Sam. “Check the refrigerator, Sam. Tell me how much blood is in there.” Sam glares at him, so Castiel belatedly adds, “Please?”

Sam eyes Dean’s mouth, which is covered in blood. His gaze travels to the wound over Dean’s chest and stomach, which is sealing up. Vampires heal quickly, and the injury is recent enough for Dean’s new state to apply. “What did you _do_ to him?” Sam demands.

“What did _I_ do?!” Castiel retorts. After everything he knows about Alastair, Sam’s first instinct is to blame _Castiel_ for everything? But Castiel understands. Besides, he is right, isn’t he? _Castiel_ is the one who turned Dean. Not Alastair.

And oh, this really is Castiel’s fault, isn’t it? He should have never allowed Dean to patrol downtown alone. He’d felt uneasy about the arrangement, but he hadn’t even attempted to oppose Dean on it. He’d merely agreed that Sam should not come along then acquiesced to Dean’s plan despite his misgivings. If he hadn’t, if he’d argued with Dean, convinced him to alter his plans, then this _never_ would’ve happened—

Then again, would he have been able to dissuade Dean from pursuing his plan? Castiel is not sure. Dean is stubborn, so stubborn that Castiel had decided not to challenge him.

Castiel studies the floor. “I turned him.” His voice comes out in a pitiful whine.

“You _what_?” Sam yells.

“I turned him,” Castiel repeats in the same tone before daring to look at Sam.

“ _Why_?”

“He was dying,” Castiel answers softly.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest. “Explain.”

“I . . . you were correct, Sam. Alastair sent one of his vampires downtown to claim a victim. When I found out, I called Dean, but he did not answer. I went downtown as soon as I could, and Crowley . . . Dean was almost dead, Sam.”

“Who’s Crowley? One of Alastair’s vampires?”

“Yes. I killed him, but I was too late for Dean.” A sob escapes from Castiel’s lips. “I’m sorry.”

Sam runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “This is my fault,” he frets. “I should have gone with Dean.”

“No, Sam. You might have been severely injured, too. Or killed.”

“But Dean would’ve had a better chance!”

“I am the one who should have been there. A vampire to counter another vampire . . . that would have been prudent.”

Sam sighs. “No use arguing over this now. Why’d you have to go and turn him into a _vampire_?”

“He was dying.”

“But . . . to make him into _that_? How is that better?”

“It was his choice.” Sam hadn’t been there, hadn’t watched as Dean, breath waning, said he didn't want to die. Castiel should have been able to resist, but he hadn’t. 

If he honestly cared about Dean, shouldn’t Castiel have been willing to let him go rather than damn him?

Dean had chosen, but it had been a desperate decision. Lucid, would Dean have preferred vampirism over death?

Sam frowns, and Castiel reminds him, “Would you see how much blood is in the refrigerator? Dean will be ravenous when he awakes.” With a shudder, Castiel recalls his earliest days as a vampire. That first morning, when he’d devoured that girl before he’d understood what was happening.

They must have blood prepared for when Dean regains consciousness. Otherwise, he might consume the first human he sees, even if that person is his brother.

“Fine,” Sam sighs. When he returns to the bedroom, Sam informs Castiel that the refrigerator contains a full gallon jug blood.

“Perfect,” Castiel replies. “Do you have a syringe?”

“What do you need a syringe for?” Sam inquires.

“Do you have one?”

“Let me check the first aid kit.” He comes back with a syringe, which he hands to Castiel. “Okay. So. What do you need this for?”

“We don’t know what Dean will be like when he wakes up,” Castiel elaborates. “He might be unable to control himself.” During his first days as a vampire, Castiel had been wild, feverish. A haze blankets the memory. He recalls the constant craving, tearing into the flesh of whatever fresh victim Anna and Michael had procured for him. Them laughing, him laughing. Chaos. Delight. Anna and Michael fucking him senseless, both together and separately. He fucking them senseless, each in turn. The ever present craving for blood. Stuffing himself until he’d passed out. In his moments of clarity, bewilderment and panic. Disgust at himself. Yet he never wished for it to stop.  

“Castiel? Are you fucking listening to me?” Sam yells, jerking Castiel out of his reverie.

“Yes. I apologize. Did you say something?” Castiel responds, dazed.

“I asked what you meant.”

“About--?”

“About Dean not being able to control himself.”

“As I said earlier, he will be ravenous,” Castiel reminds Sam. “His instinct will be to acquire blood by any means necessary. Preferably human.”

“Why does it have to be human? You don’t drink human blood.”

“Not most of the time, no.” Sam opens his mouth, and Castiel preempts Sam’s question. “It took some . . . adjusting . . . for animal blood to satisfy me. My instincts clamor for human blood, but I can subsist on animal blood. Dean, however, has not had the opportunity to develop the discipline for it, not yet.”

Sam gapes at Castiel, expression horrified. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he leaves the room and retrieves the blood from the refrigerator. Castiel thanks him and fills the syringe with blood.

After that, Sam and Castiel wait in silence.

And wait some more. As soon as Castiel’s eyes droop, a loud noise jars him into alertness.

Dean is awake, and he has thrown Sam against the wall. Dean places his teeth on Sam’s neck and prepares to bite down. Sam stares at his brother, eyes shocked, not even putting up a struggle.

Castiel stalks toward Dean and jams the syringe in his neck. Dean hisses then falls to his knees, shaking. Castiel quickly refills the syringe and stabs it into Dean’s neck again. And again. Dosing him with blood until Dean lapses into unconsciousness once more. Castiel picks up Dean and gently places him back on the bed.

“I am going to need more blood than this,” Castiel announces. He strides toward the window and peers outside, frowning. Dawn is setting in. “But I cannot obtain it myself, not when the day promises to be so bright.”

Castiel turns around and finds Sam’s unblinking gaze on him. “What’re you saying?” Sam asks. Comprehension enters his eyes. “ _No_. I won’t do that.”

“Sam—”

“ _No_. This is fuckin’ sick, man.” Castiel notes Sam’s pallor. Sam leaves the room, and soon Castiel hears him taking a shower. After another thirty minutes, Sam steps into the room, briefcase in hand. “I have to go to work.”

How can Sam even contemplate going to work at a time like this? “Sam, please—” Castiel pleads. He’s interrupted by the doorbell.

“What the hell?” Sam mutters. Castiel follows him into the living room, where Jo stands at the door, still clad in her uniform.

Jo strolls inside and closes the door behind her. “I tried calling,” she says apologetically. “But no one answered.” She examines the duo before her, and she grows somber. “What is it? What happened? Where’s Dean?”

Sam gesticulates frantically at Castiel. “Why don’t you ask _him_? He’s the one who had the oh-so-brilliant idea to turn my brother into a vampire.” He storms out of the house and slams the door behind him.

“Is it true?” Jo whispers, shocked.

“Yes,” Castiel admits in a weary voice.

Jo takes his hand in hers and guides him to the couch. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” After sitting down, she places her hat on the cushion beside her.

“Why?” Castiel replies, stunned at Jo’s comforting demeanor. “I made him a monster. That is all.”

“But why? You must’ve had a good reason.”

Castiel snorts. “Why should I? I’m a monster, aren’t I?” He remembers Jo’s cold reception when she’d learned the truth. That had been only two days ago.

Jo smiles grimly. “Not as far as I’m concerned. I mean, you don’t go around doing all the shit Alastair does.” She squeezes Castiel’s hand. “So. Why’d you do it?” Castiel withdraws his hand and studies Jo, trying to determine whether she is sincere. She flushes and says, “Jeez, don’t stare like that. It’s creepy.”

Castiel blinks. “Oh. I apologize.” He licks his lips and begins, “One of Alastair’s vampires, Crowley, attacked Dean. When I arrived, Dean was almost dead . . . I could see no way to save him.” Tears obscure Castiel’s vision. “And—I didn’t know what to do.  He was begging not to die. There was this gash all down his front—” Castiel traces the spot on his own body—“and he was fading. I gave him a choice, offered my blood. He took it.” Though that’s not quite true, is it? Dean had aimed for Castiel’s wrist but missed. Castiel should have rescinded the offer at that point.

Jo taps a fingertip on Castiel’s wrist. “Is that what this’s from?” she asks quietly. Cas glances down at the fading scar and nods.

“What have I done?” Castiel sobs, covering his face with his hands. “I’ve ruined him. Damned his soul.” He cries for a few minutes then sniffles, “When I saw him there . . . I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Leave him like that.” He peeks at Jo from between his fingers. “So I did something wrong.” He laughs desperately.

Jo dabs at her eyes. “I don’t think it was wrong,” she professes.

Castiel gawks at her. “But—”

“He didn’t want to die, right?” Castiel nods. “And he made his own decision, right?” Castiel nods again. “So that’s that.”

“But he doesn’t know what he has agreed to. He will have difficulty, especially during the first few days.—”

“He’s got you to help him. He’ll be fine.”

Castiel wipes his nose on the sleeve of his trenchcoat. “Do you really think so?”

“Yep.” Jo narrows her eyes at him. “You care about him a lot, don’t you?” she notes.

“Of course. Dean is my friend.”

“No. There’s something more.” Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand. “Don’t lie to me. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Please don’t tell Sam,” Castiel implores.

“’Course I won’t.” she smiles. “I think it’s kinda cute.” Castiel blushes. “For what it’s worth, I’m grateful you saved Dean. Who the fuck cares if he’s a vampire, right?”

He recalls her previous freak-out about vampires, so recent, yet now she is okay with Dean having been turned. “You are a strange person, Jo Harvelle.”

She erupts into a full-bellied laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” When Jo’s chuckling dies down, he points out, “I do not believe Sam agrees with you, however. About saving Dean at any cost.”

“He does, even if he doesn’t act like it. Sam is just protective of Dean, like Dean is protective of Sam. He’ll come round.”

“Why did he go to work?” Castiel blurts out. “Doesn’t he want to be here for his brother?”

“It’s his coping mechanism. You should’ve seen him after their parents died. He became this intense workaholic . . . which made things worse for Dean.”

“What happened?”

“Dean was . . . reckless. He drank too much. But he shaped up when he rammed his car into a pole one night.”

“The Impala?”

“Yeah. He fixed her himself.”

“He adores that car,” Castiel observes.

“He sure does.” She pauses. “So. What’s gonna happen to Dean now?”

“His mind will fixate on human blood. He can survive on animal blood, but his instincts will tell him to seek out that of humans. We—I—need to supply him with a copious amount of blood every time he experiences a craving. Otherwise, he will attack someone.” The warning evokes an image from earlier: Sam’s stunned silence, his terror, when Dean attacked him. Castiel shivers inwardly. “I need more blood, both for him and for myself. But the sun is out now, so I cannot acquire it myself.”

“Oh, right. Because you’ll burst into flames. Like on _Buffy_.”

“I don’t know what _Buffy_ is, but no. I will sustain an excruciating sunburn, but I need to maintain my strength in case Dean loses control.”

“Are you kidding? You don’t know Buffy? Vampire slayer?” Castiel shakes his head. “We’re totally watching that, once Dean is better and Alastair is taken care of and all that jazz.

“Anyway. I can get some blood, if you want.”

Castiel’s mind boggles at the offer. “Are you serious?”

“Sure. It’s been too long since I’ve been huntin’. Dad and I used to do it all the time.”

“Oh. Why don’t you do it anymore?”

“He’s dead. Hunting accident when he was out with Dean and Sam’s dad.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Castiel commiserates.

Jo shrugs. “It was ten years ago,” she recollects. “Mom didn’t speak to Mr. Winchester for a while, but Mrs. Winchester was so nice that she couldn’t help forgiving him. After all, it wasn’t really his fault.”

Castiel wishes he could have met Dean’s parents. From the glimpses he receives of them, they seem like good people. But he is also glad that they are not here to witness what he has done to their son.

“Are you certain?” Castiel asks.

“Why not? Mom’ll love some deer meat. So, win-win. Blood for you guys, deer burgers for her.”

“Thank you, Jo.” Her kindness warms his heart, and the three words feel like an inadequate response.

xxxxxxxxxx

When Dean wakes up, he’s greeted by a jab in the neck.

“Son of a bitch!” he screams. His eyes roll up to meet Cas’s. The dude is holding a friggin’ _syringe_ in his hand. “What the fuck?!” He detects a metallic scent wafting over from the table at his bedside. But there’s a more appetizing one emanating from the living room. He scrambles out of bed and rushes toward the door, but Castiel shoves Dean back onto the bed.

“Dean? Are you truly awake?” Cas asks, frowning.

“What the hell does it look like?! ’Course I’m awake!” Dean snarls.

“Here.” Cas hands him a full glass and sits on the edge of the bed. “Drink this.”

Dean guzzles the contents, and Cas refills the cup. After the third glass, the gnawing hunger in his stomach abates somewhat, and he can think more clearly. He licks his lips and tastes _blood_. Shit. “Cas? Why’m I drinking blood?”

Dean knows what the answer will be, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to hear it. Not yet. “Because,” Cas answers gently. “You are a vampire.”

“Did Crowley do it?”

Cas’s eyes fill with—fear? Sorrow? Regret? “No, Dean. I did.”

“What the fuck, Cas!” Dean screeches, scooting as far away from Cas as he can.

Cas draws his legs up onto the bed. “Do you not remember what happened?”

Jagged fragments pierce Dean’s memory. Crowley promising to gut his ass. Crowley slashing a clean line down the length of his torso, biting his neck, drinking his blood.

Then Cas was suddenly there. Everything goes murky at that point. Crowley’s gone, and Dean’s lying on the ground. Cas kneels above him, his eyes misting. Dean’s frantically thinking, _Shit, dear God, I don’t wanna die, please don’t let me die, shit, fuck, I really_ am _gonna die, die, die, no, please—_

Cas slits his wrist and thrusts the appendage onto Dean’s lips, and he swallows blood.

Dean cringes away from Cas. “You _turned_ me?! Fuck!”

“Dean—”

“You _forced_ me to become a vampire! You’re fuckin’ sick!” Dean’s limbs tremble. He can’t believe this. He trusted Cas, yet Cas is nothing more than what you’d expect from a vampire.

Cas winces at Dean’s words. He draws his legs up to his chin and clasps his arms around them. “Is that what you remember?” he asks, sounding pained. “I would never. You chose this.”

“Why in God’s name would I want to be _this_?”

“You were dying, Dean.” Cas’s voice devolves into a whimper. “You kept saying that you didn’t want to die, so I offered—against my better judgment, I may add, but I couldn’t _not_ , when you kept repeating that you didn’t want to die, and so I did it, and you accepted.”

He recalls wide blue eyes meeting his, indecisive, terrified, mournful.

 _No, I don’t want to die_ —and eyes the color of heaven.

A strange echo in his brain, _Dean Winchester is saved._

Delirium, it must’ve been.

“Do you regret it?” queries Cas.

“No,” Dean murmurs, surprised at how swiftly he replies. The more aware he becomes of his surroundings, the more everything _hurts_. The lights are so fuckin’ bright—

Cas crawls toward him and caresses his jawline with an index finger. “I’m sorry. It was monstrous of me.—”

“Cas—” Dean whines.

“But I cannot bring myself to regret it, either.” Cas presses his lips onto Dean’s, tongue prodding Dean’s lips until they open.

Dean likes to think he has a healthy libido, but for some reason, it’s ten times stronger right now.

He pushes Cas against the wall and grinds against him, moaning. Cas mewls in response but then pulls back. Dean springs at him, but Cas retreats again.

“You mustn’t, Dean,” Cas warns him. “Not with Sam here.”

“Sam?” Shit. What’s Sam gonna think of what he’s become?

Of course Sam’s here, Dean realizes. The dude’s blasting the TV for some damn reason.

Why is everything so damn loud and bright? And smells, they’re so overwhelming. “I think I’m sick,” Dean groans.

Cas clamps a hand to his forehead. “You’re feverish,” he notes. “No doubt an effect of your new condition.”

“Is that why everything is so frickin’ . . . ” What’s the word? “. . . intense?”

Cas cocks his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“All my senses are, like, in hyperdrive.”

“Oh. Yes. I have told you of my heightened senses, remember?”

“Yeah?”

“I have become so accustomed to it that I forgot to consider how disorienting it is at first.”

“Wait, so it’ll always be like this?”

“Yes, but you will get used to it.” Damn. Being Cas must suck.

Now being Dean sucks, too.

Footsteps pound through the hallway, and the door swings open loud as thunder, revealing Sam. “I heard voices,” he explains. He turns to Dean and smiles. “Hey, you’re awake.”

“Do you have to shout, Sammy?” Dean gripes.

“I’m not shouting—”

“Speak softly, Sam,” Cas urges. “Dean’s senses have been . . . sharpened . . . by the change.”

“Is it because--?”

“Yes.” Sam looks troubled. “Don’t fret. He will grow used to it, as I have.”

“How long have I been out?” Dean asks.

“This is the first time you have been sentient in two days,” Cas answers.

“Damn. Was it like that for you?”

“No. Well, it might’ve been, if things were different. But Michael and Anna, they wanted to initiate me into their way of life as soon as they could.” Dean nods.

“Who’re Michael and Anna?” Sam queries.

“Michael and Anna Milton,” Cas says. “When they were visiting my brother at the family estate—”

“Wait, Anna _Milton_? The same one who wrote all that feminist stuff in the late 1700s and early 1800s?” God, Sam is such a nerd.

“Yes.”

“No freakin’ _way_.” Sam looks as if his mind’s just been blown.

“Yes. They turned me. I didn’t know what was happening at the time . . . I woke up, and suddenly I’d become something else.” Dean’s heart throbs at Cas’s anguished tone.

“They tricked you,” Dean accuses fiercely. Sam actually appears sympathetic. Lord knows he ain’t Cas’s biggest fan, but something about Cas’s admission seems to penetrate Sam’s shell.

Cas shrugs, trenchcoat rippling minutely with the motion. “Perhaps.—”

“Definitely.”

“But it is long over and done with now.” Cas wrinkles his forehead in worry. Damn, but how do those crystal blue eyes reach into Dean’s soul? “I hope you do not think I tricked you, Dean. That was not my intent.”

Dean strains to remember Cas offering him the blood. The picture is incomplete, and he can’t quite puzzle it out. But seizing the chance not to die . . . that sounds like him. “No, Cas,” he assures the dark-haired man.

Although his demeanor doesn’t alter, Cas’s relief is palpable. He stands up. “I’ll leave you and Sam to talk.”

Sam seems hesitant, and Dean knows what he wants to ask. If he’s too much of a pussy to bring up the issue, Dean will. “Is it safe?” he utters.

“You have fed sufficiently for the time being. But if you start to experience a craving . . . ”

“Yeah, got it.” _I’ll make sure Sam gets the hell outta here_.

Alone with Sam, Dean doesn’t know where to look. Sam won’t understand. Sam would prefer him dead over _this_. Rather dead than undead. Heh.

So Dean stares at the wall.

“Dean,” Sam prompts. Dean doesn’t answer. “Dean, look at me. Please.”

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispers, tears threatening to obliterate his sight. _Dammit_. He will _not_ melt into a weeping mess.

Sam hurls himself into Dean’s line of vision, sprawling onto the bed inches away from Dean’s face. “Don’t apologize, Dean. You have no reason to.”

Dean snorts. “You watchin’ the same channel I am?”

“I’m glad to still have you. I don’t care how. You’re practically all I’ve got left.” Sam’s voice cracks. “And I love you.”

“Sammy,” Dean breathes. Sam embraces him, and Dean—

Dean can sense Sam’s blood pumping through his veins. Smell it. Hear it. His mouth waters, and it’s the most disgusting thing possible. He craves his baby brother’s blood. If he weren’t so stuffed already, he’d pounce on Sam.

He feels it, just underneath his surface. The animal inside, eager to take over. How the fuck does Cas deal with it?


	16. Exposure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that this story has 99 kudos so far. I never expected to have that many, so thanks! I hope people continue to enjoy this story! Readers keep me motivated! As ever, feedback is welcome, and thanks for reading!

Dean spends the days “educating” Castiel about popular culture. Movies, TV shows, music. Castiel asks Dean to explain _Buffy_ to him, and after Dean tells him the show’s premise, he concludes that the concept sounds interesting. Dean wants to pull it up on Netflix right away, but Castiel makes him promise to wait for Jo.

“What, you like Jo more than me now?” Dean teases. “Should I be jealous?”

“No,” Castiel replies. “But she did say that she wanted to watch it with us.”

“So, what should we do now?” Dean ponders. “Hey, we could play some more records. I’ve got Robert Johnson on vinyl; I think we should listen to that next.”

“You own a Robert Johnson record?”

“You know him?” Dean marvels.

“Benny and I saw him once in a town in the Mississippi Delta. I can’t remember the town’s name, but I do remember him . . . he had quite the presence.”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “I can’t believe you saw freakin’ _Robert Johnson_. _In person._ ”

“I heard his music only that once,” Castiel says. “I would welcome the opportunity to hear it again.”

“Then what’re we waitin’ for?”

Castiel follows Dean to his bedroom, where Dean digs through his record collection until he pulls out an album entitled _King of the Delta Blues Singers_. Dean bends down to operate the record player. Once music blares out of the phonograph, Dean plops onto his bed and leans against the wall, Castiel joining him soon after. Dean rests his hand in Castiel’s, and they listen to the spellbinding tune.

> _I went down to the crossroad, fell down on my knees._
> 
> _I went down to the crossroad, fell down on my knees._
> 
> _Asked the Lord above, “Have mercy, save poor Bob, if you please.”_

“They say he really did sell his soul to the devil,” Dean observes.

“A crossroads demon, actually.” Castiel frowns. “Although I’m not sure why, as I believe he was probably born with his talents . . . ”

“You know the legend, too?”

“Legend often stems from fact. I remember . . . Benny and I encountered the demon in Biloxi. We killed him, of course.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “Of course,” he murmurs. Then, more loudly, he says, “You’re sayin’ demons exist?”

“There are many creatures in this world, Dean. Demons, werewolves, rugarus—”

“What the hell is a rugaru?!”

“A person who’s been turned into a monster and eats other humans.”

“Is that made up? That sounds made up.”

Castiel cannot prevent himself from smiling. “No. It is real.”

“Damn. That sucks.”

Dean lays his head on Castiel’s shoulder, and they listen in peaceful silence.

> _You better come on in my kitchen._

Dean lifts his head up and presses lips to the corner of Castiel’s mouth.

> _It’s goin’ to be rainin’ outdoors._

Dean catches Castiel’s bottom lip between his. Castiel melts into the sweet taste. After a minute, Castiel forces himself to back away from Dean, and Dean grips his shoulders, those darkened green eyes beautiful, the scars on his face beautiful.

Resisting is agonizing.

“Dean,” Castiel says. “I don’t know about this.”

“Why not?” Sorrow enters Dean’s eyes, and it hurts Castiel’s heart. “You’ve been avoiding . . . this . . . since, y’know.” When Dean had first woken up after his transformation, yes.

“If Sam should come home—” Castiel frets. Sam is at work, but what if he stops by for lunch? What if he decides to come home early? Castiel is certain that Sam would be irate if he discovered the true nature of Castiel’s relationship with Dean.

“He won’t. You worry too damn much.” Dean shoves Castiel onto his back and plants his lips on Castiel’s once more. A mewling sound emanates from Castiel’s throat as his mouth opens for Dean; then he savors the feel of Dean’s tongue on his.

“Y’know,” Dean muses, his lips lingering only a fraction of an inch above Castiel’s. Dean’s breath is not warm, as it used to be, and Castiel aches, knowing that this change is his fault, that he has failed to preserve Dean’s humanity. “I don’t remember what your blood tastes like.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s tongue trails from Castiel’s mouth to his clavicle, and Castiel shivers. “I’d kind of like to.”

“You can have more.”

Dean kisses Castiel’s clavicle. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s sharpened teeth penetrate Castiel’s skin. He gasps at the sensation, throwing his head back, feeling the blood as it flows out of him into Dean’s mouth.

“You all right? Do you want me to stop?” Dean whispers.

“Yes. I mean, I am all right. You may continue.”

Dean chuckles against his skin. As Dean continues to drink, he threads a hand through Castiel’s hair, and Castiel releases a contented sigh. Dean doesn’t know the significance of this, that Castiel has voluntarily given Dean his blood, the intimacy, the inherent trust in such a gesture. Alastair and his nest had indulged themselves in Castiel’s blood, and that had been a violation of his person, one most other vampires, no matter how bloodthirsty, would abhor. On occasion, he had tasted Anna and Michael, and they him. Even though he had participated willingly, it had still felt wrong, for he’d done so only to avoid their anger. The first time, he’d initially refused, but they’d whipped him until he’d complied. He hadn’t resisted after that.

But this, this he wants, this he relishes. He has put himself totally under Dean’s control, and it thrills him, because he trusts Dean with everything he is.

The pleasure builds up inside, rushing to his groin, and he moans, the sound wanton to his ears. Too soon, Dean pries his lips off of Cas’s skin and laps up the remaining driblets of blood. Castiel rises to his knees and kisses Dean, absorbing the bloody residue on Dean’s mouth. Tasting his own blood, swallowing it . . . it excites him, the term might be, “unheimlich,” he breathes.

“What’d you say?” Dean asks, drawing back far enough to examine Castiel’s features.

“Unheimlich.”

“What is that? French?”

Castiel smiles. “No. German.”

“You know German?”

“No. It is a term Freud used . . . the English translation would be ‘uncanny,’ but it doesn’t quite convey the same mood. I am not sure how to explain the idea. The best I can do is to say it refers to when something is simultaneously attractive yet repulsive.”

“Gee, thanks,” Dean says sarcastically.

“I wasn’t referring to you, Dean, but myself. To how it felt when I tasted my blood on your lips.”

“Oh.” Dean’s countenance grows thoughtful. “I guess that is unheimlich.”

> _I wanna tell you all about the way they treated me._

The lyric is followed by an earsplitting scratching noise, and Dean springs from the bed to flip over the record. Castiel moves to the edge of the bed, legs dangling, and Dean kneels beside the bed. He reaches up and cups Castiel’s rear, averring, “Your ass looks so fucking hot in those jeans.” He leaves one hand on Castiel’s posterior, but the other migrates to the zipper and pulls it down. Dean slowly draws Castiel’s black jeans to his ankles, pressing a kiss to Castiel’s thigh when he has peeled off the pants along with Castiel’s boxers. Dean stands up and declares, “You’ve still got too many fucking clothes on.” He settles onto Castiel’s lap and draws off the trenchcoat, muttering, “I don’t even know why you wear this indoors.” He unbuttons Castiel’s white shirt and flings it to the floor.

“Now _you_ are the one wearing too many clothes,” Castiel growls. Soon, Dean’s green plaid shirt is joining Castiel’s on the carpet. Dean tears off his own jeans and boxers and tosses them onto the ground. Castiel clasps Dean’s shoulders and kisses him, regrets when he has to come away for air.

> _Watch your close friend, baby._
> 
> _Then your enemy can’t do you no harm._

Castiel bounds off of the bed to take the needle off of the record, and the music ceases. Dean raises a questioning eyebrow. “We wouldn’t want it to scratch again when it is finished, would we? For we will be otherwise occupied.” Dean’s mouth forms this adorable little “oh,” and Castiel pushes him onto his back and straddles him. He runs a hand over Dean’s chest and the other along Dean’s back, touching him everywhere he can. “You are so beautiful, Dean,” Castiel murmurs.

“Yeah, right,” Dean scoffs.

Castiel meets his troubled eyes. “Yes. You are.”

“Have you _seen_ my face?”

“Yes. It is beautiful.” Dean snorts. Castiel caresses the facial scars with his fingertips and traces them with his lips before smashing his mouth against Dean’s. Dean ruts up against Castiel, and Castiel mirrors the motion. He grabs his penis and Dean’s, rubbing them together.

“Oh, my fucking God, _yes_ ,” Dean keens. He clasps a hand over Castiel’s, and together they thrust, their engorged cocks brushing against each other, heat building. Dean comes first with a guttural moan (“Cas”), and that pushes Castiel over the edge, Dean’s name dripping from his lips. They collapse against each other, panting heavily as they come down. When he can manage it, Castiel rolls to the side and wraps his arms around Dean, who grabs a rag from the bedside table and wipes up their cum. Castiel noses into Dean’s sandy hair, and as his eyes flutter closed, he feels such warmth and affection, and he wants to say something, something on the tip of his tongue that his mind attempts to find but cannot.

xxxxxxxxxxx

A door opens, then footsteps. Dean’s eyes fly open, and he can smell it, the human prowling through the hallway. His instincts have grown accustomed to the scents of Sam and Jo, so their presence no longer triggers his cravings. (Out in the wider world, it’s a different story.) He recognizes the familiarity of this one.—

He’s lying naked in bed, and Cas is freakin’ _cuddling_ him. Sam’s going to check on him any minute now, as he always does. _Son of a bitch!_

Cas’s eyes pop open. Comprehension settles into that gorgeous blue, and he springs off the bed. “Dean. Sam’s here,” he hisses.

“I know,” Dean mumbles. He snatches the clothes from the floor and tosses Cas his items before shimmying into his own jeans. Dean is about to don his shirt when—

The doorknob turns, revealing Sam. “Oh my God!” he exclaims, eyes roving from Dean to Cas, who, like Dean, is still shirtless. Cas’s face flushes, and he turns away from Sam, massaging his temple self-consciously. Sam flees, and Dean rushes after him while he buttons his shirt up.

“Sammy, wait up,” Dean calls.

When they reach the living room, Sam spins around to face him. “I didn’t know you were gay, Dean,” he says.

 _That_ definitely hadn’t been what Dean expected to hear, and he bursts into laughter before replying, “I’m not gay, Sam, I’m bi. There’s a difference.”

“Oh. I’ve just never seen you show interest in a guy is all.” He narrows his eyes at Dean, and Dean squirms under his scrutiny.

Dean’s getting suspicious vibes, and it makes him indignant. He crosses his arms over his chest and retorts, “Why, Sammy? You got a problem with it?”

“N . . . n . . . no,” Sam stammers. His glare belies him, however. “It’s just that the dude is a vampire, and yeah, I’ve got a problem with _that_.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m a freakin’ vampire, too.”

“Yeah. Because of him.”

“And I’m alive because of him,” Dean snaps. “He saved my life. Twice.”

Sam is quiet for a moment; then he softly asks, “Is it serious?”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters. He casts his eyes downward, a little embarrassed at the admission, not liking how exposed he feels.

“Oh,” Sam exhales. After a minute, he adds, “Well, I guess that’s that.” Dean stares at him. Seriously, Sam’s not gonna argue anymore about this? Not that he’s ungrateful; it just surprises him. “As long as you’re happy, and he treats you well, and he cares about you, too . . . I guess that’s all that matters.”

Dean can’t help but grin. “He does.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Cas has been keeping tabs on Alastair, but lately there hasn’t been any action on that end. Dean and Cas are both puzzled by it. Dean begs Cas to allow him to accompany Cas to Alastair’s, but Cas always refuses, saying that Dean’s still too sensitive to his cravings. But Dean is getting friggin’ _bored_ sitting in the house all day and night, so Cas eventually caves.

“If you become distracted, inform me as soon as it happens,” Cas stipulates.

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Dean mutters. He retrieves his keys from the bedside table, and Cas follows him to the front door. “Let’s go.”

Cas blocks the doorway and holds out a hand. “I think you should give me the keys.”

“What? No! You’re not drivin’ my baby!” Dean objects, forming a fist around the keys.

“Dean, how do you think I brought you back here the night we encountered Crowley?”

Damn. He hadn’t considered that. “Why do you wanna drive?”

“I fear that, should you experience an overwhelming craving, it could prove . . . disruptive.”

“Nah, I’d never let anything happen to my baby.” Cas directs this penetrating look at him, and shit, does he know about that time Dean had been driving drunk and wrapped the Impala around a pole? No, he can’t. Who’d tell him? Sam? Not likely. Still, with Cas staring at him like that, Dean feels overpowered. “Fine.” He drops the keys into Cas’s hand, and Dean yells a good-bye to Sam on their way out.

“If you hurt her, Imma kill you,” Dean warns as they clamber into the car.

“Duly noted,” Cas replies, tone amused, as he switches on the ignition. He shouldn’t be taking the well-being of his baby so lightly, Dean thinks.

While Cas drives through the neighborhood, Dean is okay. Why shouldn’t he be? He’d drunk three glasses of blood shortly before they’d left. Besides, the whiff of human blood is faint since most people are indoors.

But once they reach a busy street near a shopping center, shit hits the fan. There’s this smell of humanity en masse, and Dean salivates, his stomach growling. He grasps the door handle, attempting to reign in his instinct to fling it open, jump out, and sink his teeth into the woman waiting at the crosswalk while the car is stopped at a red light. His hands start to shake, and he clenches his teeth, everything in him screaming _bite bite bite_. His palms grow clammy.

“Cas,” he mumbles, digging his nails into his palms.

“Yes, Dean?” Cas twists around to face him and frowns. “You do not look well.”

“No shit,” Dean slurs. The light turns green, and Cas resumes driving. “I don’t feel so well.”

“Are you craving?”

“Yeah.”

“I shall take you home.”

“No, you don’t need to do that.” But Dean feels faint, raw with longing.

“Yes, I do.”

Cas executes a U-turn at the next intersection. By the time they arrive home, Dean has broken into a cold sweat. He lurches to his feet; then Cas is there, supporting him before he can fall. Dean throws an arm around his shoulders and allows him to lead them inside, where they find Sam pouring himself a glass of apple juice, of all things. “Dean, are you all right?” Sam sputters, expression worried.

Cas helps Dean sit down then pushes past Sam to the fridge. “He is experiencing a craving,” Cas explains. He pulls out a pitcher of blood and fills up a glass, which he carries to Dean. “Here, drink this,” he urges as he presses the glass into Dean’s hand.

“Didn’t you just drink?” Sam asks.

“Yes, he did,” Cas answers as Dean chugs the cup’s contents. “But the trip outside triggered his appetite.”

“Why’s it like this?” Dean inquires as he downs the last of the blood. “I mean, this doesn’t happen to you? Why not?”

“My body did take some time to adjust to animal blood. Perhaps not as much as yours, but that might be because you are a new vampire,” Cas theorizes. “Besides, as for human blood, you do know . . . ” He eyes Sam uneasily. Dean nods because yes, he does know, that night forever etched into his mind. Cas biting into that man. Cas’s words.

_Do you not ever wish that you could take justice into your own hands?_

He can’t ever go back to work, Dean realizes. Not with what he has become. The only brand of justice he can deal out now is the same one as Cas. _Vigilantism_. And if they should take the opportunity to treat themselves to human blood, who could object? Not him, certainly. He breaks into hysterical laughter.

“Dean?” Sam prompts hesitantly.

His cheeks are wet. Goddamn it, he’s fucking _crying_.

“What is it?” Cas asks, voice laced with concern.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says under his breath.

“No, it is not nothing.” Cas removes the glass from Dean’s hand and sets it on the table then massages his knuckles. “Tell me—tell us about it. Please?”

The words come pouring out against his will. “My life is over.” Cas looks guilt-stricken. “No, Cas, ’s not your fault. It’s just that, my career, everything I’ve worked for my whole damn life . . . it’s gone. I _love_ my job, and I am—was—good at it. It sounds dumb, I know, but I felt like I was helping make the world a better place. But I can’t do it anymore.”

“Oh, Dean,” Cas sighs, his own eyes reddening. Sam merely gazes at Dean, speechless. Cas leans in and whispers in Dean’s ear, “But that is not true. You know it is not. We can still exact justice, you and I. Even if our mode is . . . different.”

“But Cas,” Dean whispers back. “I believe in the law. I always have. I don’t want to be outside of it.”

“The law has gaps. There are many things the law does not cover, things in the shadows. You know that as well as I do.”

“Yeah.” Dean scoots his chair back and stands up. Sam gawks at them, curiosity plain, but at least he has the good sense not to butt into their business. “I’m gonna go to bed,” Dean announces, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Sure, he’s spent half the day sleeping, but damn, _emotions_ , they’re tiring, and he wants nothing more than to curl into a ball and forget he actually said all that crap. Dean heads toward his room, Cas’s footsteps pattering after him. Once they’re both inside, Dean swerves around to face Cas. “What?” He winces at how rude he sounds.

“I just . . . ” Cas flushes.

Dean strips down to his boxers and undershirt, crawls into bed, and closes his eyes. “Turn off the light on your way out.” He feels the bed sink as Cas sits on the foot of it, and he cracks open an eye. “What’re you doin’?”

“I wonder . . . ” Cas chews his lip. Fuck, he’s adorable when he’s nervous. “ . . . if I may join you?” He stands up and paces. “No. I apologize. That would not be appropriate. We would not want to make Sam uncomfortable.”

Dean snorts. “Who the fuck cares?” he grunts. “It’s not like Sam doesn’t know about us.” Dean pats the bed beside him. “C’mere.”

Cas ceases his motion. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just don’t wear that stupid coat to bed.”

Cas offers a tentative smile. “All right.” When he joins Dean, he is clad in only boxers and a white T-shirt. Cas envelops Dean in his arms, and Dean rests his cheek against Cas’s neck, hand running up and down Cas’s spine until he drifts off.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Before Cas leaves to patrol the perimeter of Alastair’s house, Dean, Sam, and Cas watch the early evening news. The top story? Another mutilated body has been discovered. After almost two weeks of silence from the serial killer, people had begun growing complacent, believing that perhaps the perpetrator had ceased his heinous crimes.

But not so.

This morning, the body of Brian Wilcox, a college student at the nearby university, was found in the parking lot of a Barnes and Noble, with multiple gashes on almost every part of his body.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean says.

Cas pales. “I do not understand. I have not seen anyone from Alastair’s nest with a victim since the night of Crowley’s demise. That would seem to indicate they kidnapped and drained the boy last night, which does not fit the M.O. Alastair likes to torture his victims for several days.”

“If they haven’t been snatchin’ people up, how’ve they been survivin’? Don’t they need blood?” Dean doesn’t think for a minute that those bastards would settle for animal blood.

“No doubt they had a sizable repository in storage. Sometimes Alastair extracts their blood and saves it for later. That is why he hooks them up to those tubes.”

Dean doesn’t want to be reminded of that gruesome sight, and judging by Sam’s expression, neither does he.

Once the sun has completely set, Cas departs for Alastair’s. Jo’s on duty, so Sam stays home with Dean. Dean doesn’t know why he needs someone to always be here with him, but Cas apparently believes it’s a necessity. Maybe Cas is afraid Dean will go outside and be unable to resist his instincts, but Dean’s not that dumb. He can control himself. He thinks.

Dean tunes in to a new episode of _Dr. Sexy_ while Sam buries himself in a book. In the middle of the show, Sam’s damn phone rings. At least his brother’s gracious enough to take the call in another room. A few minutes later, Sam returns to the living room, and thank God there’s a commercial break because Sam is talking. “That was Sarah,” he explains. “She got a flat tire, and she needs help putting on the spare. Will you be all right alone?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “ _Duh_. I’m not five.”

“’Kay. I’ll be back ASAP.”

“Don’t worry ’bout it.”

After the episode ends on a cliffhanger (damn), Dean takes a piss. When he’s finished, he steps into the hallway and hears the front door creep open. He stops just outside the entrance to the living room. “Sammy?” he calls. But no, the smell is all wrong. Like a vampire . . . not Cas, but a scent much more disconcerting. He peeks into the living room and sees the profile of a creature from his nightmares. He contemplates running, but if he can smell Alastair, then Alastair can probably smell him. And if Alastair is more powerful than Cas, no doubt he can destroy a newly made vampire.

So Dean swallows and crosses into the living room.

Alastair flashes a sinister smile. “Hello, Dean,” he sneers in a mockery of Cas’s voice.

xxxxxxxxxxx

When Castiel arrives at Alastair’s house, he finds it unoccupied. After determining that no one from Alastair’s nest is nearby, he ventures inside and explores every room. The whole place is empty; it is as if Alastair and his brood have never resided here.

In addition to procuring and disposing of a new victim, Alastair’s nest has relocated. All during the one night that Castiel hadn’t maintained his vigil on Alastair. The coincidence is unnerving.

What should he do now? How is he going to find Alastair’s new hideout? Should he just go home? (Strange, he reflects, that he has begun thinking of the Winchesters’ house as his home.) The phone rings, interrupting his thoughts.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam replies, an odd lilt inflecting his voice. Castiel’s stomach fills with dread. Sam has never called him “Cas” before, and while the use of the nickname might indicate Sam’s acceptance of his presence in Dean’s life, the utterance seems borne of desperation.

“What is it, Sam?”

“Dean’s gone.”

“What do you mean, he’s gone?”

“He’s not here.” Sam’s voice catches on a sob.

“How did he manage to leave the house with you there?”

“I left for a few minutes, to help my girlfriend with something . . . and when I came back, Dean wasn’t here.” His breath hitches. “I’m sorry,” he sniffles.

“Do not blame yourself, Sam. Perhaps he merely wanted to go outside for a minute.” Castiel does not believe his own words, however. “I will be there in a few minutes.”

When Castiel walks into the Winchesters' house, Sam is slumped over on the couch, cradling his face in his hands. Castiel’s eyes roam the living room, searching for clues. They alight on a photograph of Mary Winchester, which is propped up on an end table. Something protrudes from the corner of the frame. Castiel picks up the picture and opens the frame, and a small notecard tumbles out. With horror, he recognizes the handwriting scrawled across it:

> _Officer Winchester should learn from a proper vampire, don’t you think?_

“No,” Cas breathes as the card cascades to the floor.

Sam glances up at him. “What? What is it?”

“Alastair has taken him.”

“How do you know?”

Castiel gestures at the note on the carpet. “Read it.”

Sam retrieves the slip of paper and scans it. “What does it mean?” he asks.

Castiel collapses onto the couch. “It means that Alastair has taken Dean, and it is my fault.”

“Huh? How?”

Castiel breaks down, crying harder than he remembers ever doing before. He can barely breathe. “I turned him,” Castiel wails. “Now Alastair has Dean while he is vulnerable, and he’s going to destroy him. This is my fault,” Castiel whimpers. “Alastair is doing this to get back at me. If it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have Dean, Dean would be safe.” He gazes at Sam and speaks with a hoarse voice. “I am sorry. I have destroyed Dean.”

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “No, you haven’t. You saved him. Twice. And you—we—can save him again,” he states, tone resolute.

Castiel wishes he could believe that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the Robert Johnson songs that are quoted in this chapter:
> 
> "I went down to the crossroad, fell down on my knees  
> I went down to the crossroad, fell down on my knees  
> Asked the Lord above, 'Have mercy, save poor Bob, if you please.'": ["Cross Road Blues"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsB_cGdgPTo)
> 
> "You better come on in my kitchen.  
> It’s goin’ to be rainin’ outdoors.": ["Come on in My Kitchen"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4up4VP8zjyc)
> 
> "I wanna tell you all about the way they treated me.": ["If I Had Possession Over Judgment Day"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBIa-kYc1PI)
> 
> "Watch your close friend, baby,  
> Then your enemy can’t do you no harm.": ["When You Got a Good Friend"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q4x_QBp3S7Y)
> 
> I found a track listing for _King of the Delta Blues Singers_ , and I tried to time events to the length and order of the album's tracks.
> 
> For some reason, when I was writing the part where Cas quotes Freud, I thought of the Freud essay ["The Uncanny"](http://www-rohan.sdsu.edu/~amtower/uncanny.html), which I read for a literature class back in college. I couldn't think of any other term for what I meant, and I thought Cas would probably know of the concept, so I put it in.
> 
> Finally, I probably won't be updating for at least a week. I'd rather be working on this story, but real life is going to be quite busy next week. I had this chapter drafted, so I thought I'd post it now. I hope it's okay because I'm practically falling asleep at the moment; I had a long day.


	17. Comes the Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture and flashbacks to/mentions of rape.
> 
> [Mimibee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mimibee/pseuds/mimibee)/[shinzz1](http://shinzz1.tumblr.com/) on tumblr has made a wonderful banner for this story! I've added it to the beginning of the first chapter.
> 
> Also, I have a [tumblr ](http://angelofthemoor.tumblr.com/) now. If you come follow me, I might actually use it. Otherwise, using it would be like me rambling to myself, so I probably wouldn't do it. You can contact me there, too, if you ever feel so inclined.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and I'd love to know your thoughts! I'm honored that so many people have found this fic worth reading so far.

Darkness.

Complete and utter darkness.

Maybe he’s asleep. Dean pinches himself to check and _nope_.

“Sam?” he calls tentatively. When no one answers, he tries, “Cas?” He stretches his arms forward, and mere inches in front of his chest, his palms slam into a wall. He encounters the same result when he reaches out from his sides. “Son of a bitch,” he whispers, breath whistling through his teeth as he collapses against the wall behind him.

Everything tumbles back into his mind.

Walking into the living room, facing Alastair’s chilling gaze. Dean had wanted to claw at his face, do to him what he’d done to Dean. See how much the motherfucker liked it. Then there was that leer when Alastair taunted him, “Hello, Dean,” copying Cas’s intonation, belittling Cas in three syllables.

Alastair sweeping toward him, aiming a fist at his cheek, Dean blocking the attempted blow with his arm. Another punch landing in his gut, and Dean doubling over in pain. Even with reflexes ten times faster than they were when he was human, he didn’t recover from the motion quickly enough. Dean straightened up only to be arrested in the movement by Alastair’s fist, which pounded into his chest again and again. And again. Dean fell to the floor, and Alastair was kicking at his cheek, his nose, stomping on his head with a sturdy boot until—

And now this.

It feels as if the world is closing in around him, conspiring to choke him until he can no longer breathe.

Dean pulls his knees up to his chin and presses his eyelids into his jeans, attempting to comfort himself with the feel of the fabric. Squeezing his eyes closed, he forces himself to see stars—they are better than the void.

xxxxxxxxxxx

“We need to come up with a plan,” Sam declares. He’d just guzzled a large thermos of coffee, and his eyes are a little too bright. He doesn’t look entirely sane, Castiel thinks.

“We cannot talk about that,” Castiel replies.

Sam looks mutinous. “Why not?”

“Don’t you see? Alastair is keeping his eyes on us. On me.” That has to be the only explanation, Castiel hypothesizes. Alastair had been lulling him and Dean into a false sense of security. With Castiel neglecting to observe Alastair’s house last night, Alastair had taken the opportunity to procure a victim without risking a confrontation. Not that Alastair and his nest couldn’t defeat him and Dean in a fight. Of course they could. But Alastair never takes the straightforward path. No. He revels in torture, and he would rather destroy Castiel (and Dean, by extension) piece by piece, savoring every ounce of suffering.

So Alastair waited. Waited until Castiel wasn’t watching to move his hideout. Waited until Dean was alone so he could abduct him. All this to hurt Castiel, because he’d escaped Alastair’s clutches. He would revenge himself on the one who’d prevented his success, another one who’d managed to slip out of his grasp. Again, because of Castiel.

Alastair is going to hurt Dean, and it’s Castiel’s fault.

Castiel laughs bitterly, the sound hollow, and Sam frowns. “I am sorry, Sam,” Castiel says. “I ruined Dean.”

“None of this is your fault, man,” Sam responds, his hands curling into fists. “It’s that psychotic bastard's.” Sam pats Castiel’s shoulder, a gesture intended to comfort, as his next words make plain: “Stop blamin’ yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

“Sam—”

“I’m the one who left him here alone.”

But Sam would not have been much protection against Alastair. He would have been a liability, in fact. Alastair could have easily overpowered Sam. He has no qualms about killing people, so why would he have waited for Sam to leave before kidnapping Dean?

Perhaps because Sam is immaterial to his plans? But why should that matter?

Or is it because he loves making people suffer? Does he want to watch Sam fall apart as he hurts Dean?

It’s possible. Alastair is a sadistic son of a bitch, as Dean would say.

“It’s no one’s fault,” Castiel assures Sam. “We should concentrate on rescuing Dean.”

“So we need to brainstorm.”

“He will hear us. They are probably listening in at the window.”

Sam rushes to the window and peeks through the curtains. “I don’t see anything,” he says.

“Of course not,” Castiel explains. “Alastair, or whoever he’s assigned the task to, is much faster than you. They heard you walking to the window, and they ran off before you could glimpse them.”

“Christ,” Sam mumbles. He returns to his spot on the couch and picks up his phone. Castiel eyes him warily, unsure why Sam would divert himself with his phone at a time like this. A second later, Castiel’s phone chirrups. Castiel retrieves it from his pocket and begins reading the message aloud: “We can—”

Sam clears his throat, and Castiel looks at him. Sam puts a finger to his lips. Castiel stares at him quizzically, and Sam’s expression grows increasingly more exasperated until comprehension dawns on Castiel.

The sender’s number belongs to Sam. Castiel glances down at the phone once again and silently reads the message.

_We can talk like this._

The idea is ingenious. If only Castiel could type into his phone without hitting the wrong letters. Two minutes later, Castiel has sent the following message:

_Yes._

Sam reads it and snorts.

“Back in Black” breaks into the quiet, and Sam and Castiel jump. Their eyes land on the phone lying on the coffee table. Dean’s phone. After they recover from the shock, Sam answers it with, “Jo?”

Castiel can hear Jo’s voice through the receiver. “Hey, Sam. Can I talk to Dean?”

“Um. Dean’s not here.”

“What do you mean, Dean’s not there?” Sam doesn’t say anything, and eventually Jo interrupts the awkward silence. “Sam? What do you mean?”

Sam remains speechless, so Castiel snatches the phone from him and, in a subdued tone, informs Jo, “Alastair has taken him.”

“What do you me—oh, my God!” Jo shrieks. “I’m comin’ over.”

Castiel sweeps a hand over his forehead. “No, Jo, there is no need to come over.—”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it, Cas. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” _Click_ , and the phone goes quiet. Castiel hands the phone back to Sam and sighs.

“She’s comin’ over, isn’t she?” Sam comments.

“Yes.”

“I guess we should wait for her, then.”

Castiel wrings his hands, growing more uneasy the longer the tense silence between him and Sam drags on. Tears sting his eyes every time his thoughts drift off to Dean, but he cannot prevent the name from repeating itself in his mind, a mantra that haunts him. If Alastair should treat him as he had Castiel, violate him just as deeply.—

Castiel would be to blame, for allowing himself to become close to Dean since it provided Alastair with the impetus to act against him.

Castiel would be to blame for drinking Dean’s blood instead of dying as he should have.

Better for him to be dead than for Dean to be tortured.

The doorbell rings, finally, and Sam springs from the couch to answer it. Jo trots into the room and plops herself down on the couch in the middle, next to Castiel. Sam resumes his spot on the other side. “Cas,” she says in a low voice as she gently pries open Castiel’s clenched fists. Her sorrowful eyes linger on his palms before she raises them to his face. Castiel rolls his eyes downward to see what she had been studying. Red trails decorate his palms, and he does not know what the substance is at first, and _oh_ , it’s his blood. He had been digging his fingernails into his palms, drawing blood, and he had not even noticed. He wipes the substance off on his jeans, and Jo winces. Castiel turns to Sam, whose bottom lip trembles as he attempts to hold in his tears.

“Boys,” Jo assures them firmly, “we’ll get our Dean-o back.”

“But what if we don’t?” Sam worries.

Castiel crosses his arms over his chest and attempts to retain his composure. “I have already failed him,” he opines. “Even if we get him back, Alastair is depraved. He will be hurt, and it will be because I failed to protect him.”

“I failed, too,” Sam adds.

“Honestly, you two!” Jo snaps. “Quit wallowing and get to work! All this moping isn’t gonna help Dean one bit. We’ve got shit to do. We need to figure out where the fuck Alastair is now—I’m guessin’ he's moved his headquarters?” Castiel nods. “Okay, so we need to do that. Then we need a battle plan for going in and grabbing Dean’s ass. We can worry about other stuff later.”

“Yeah, I told Cas that we need a plan,” Sam agrees.

“That’s a good start. So, any ideas?”

“We can’t talk aloud about it,” Castiel inserts. Jo opens her mouth, but Castiel holds up a hand, and she closes it again. “Alastair is watching us. I am certain of it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He timed his actions perfectly. It must be more than coincidence.”

“Shit.” Sam taps out a message on his phone, and Jo’s phone buzzes a second later. She reads the message, nods, and then types one of her own, which she sends to both Sam and Castiel:

_Okay. Good idea. So, how’re we gonna find Alastair’s hideout?_

Castiel pecks out, _Last time, Dean and I drove around until we spotted a member of his nest. But that is a terribly inefficient method. Besides, I do not think it will work this time. Alastair will follow us._ When he glances up, he notices Sam and Jo attempting to restrain amused smiles. “What is it?” he asks.

“You’re just such a slow typer,” Jo replies.

“Hmph.” He does not care for the two of them laughing at his paltry cell phone skills.

Sam: _Do you think he would follow all of us?_

Castiel: _Probably._

Jo: _Even me?_

Castiel: _Yes. I believe he knows that you are part of the enterprise._

Jo: _Fuck._

Sam: _So what can we do?_

Jo: _We can hope for a miracle. A useful tip called in to the station_.

Sam: _How likely is that? When is the last time something like that happened?_

Jo eyes Castiel before writing, _The night we went to Pontiac Baptist Church._

The night Dean had found Castiel. Rescued him and saved his life. Brought Castiel to his home.

Joy had lit up Alastair’s eyes with every blow, every scrape of the sword. Hurting and humiliating his prey—that is Alastair’s definition of bliss.

Castiel’s body recalls the feel of Alastair inside him, of Alastair laughing as he made Castiel come while simultaneously destroying him.—

He imagines the same thing happening to Dean and lets out an involuntary whimper.

“Cas?” Jo ventures.

Castiel steels himself as best he can and murmurs, “I apologize. I was recalling my time with Alastair.”

“He’s a sick fuck, huh?” Castiel nods, and Jo blanches. “Well. All the more reason for us to get to work.”

“Once we find Alastair, you should let me confront him alone,” Castiel asserts.

“To hell with that!”

“With all due respect, neither you nor Sam is a match for a group of vampires.”

“Neither are you!” Jo protests. Castiel glares at her. “Don’t look at me like that. There’re what, like five of them?” Castiel nods. “And didn’t you say that Alastair by himself could overpower you?”

“Yes. But I do not care what happens to me as long as we rescue Dean. However, you and Sam—”

“Don’t pull that martyr crap! You think Dean’ll like it if you die saving him?”

“He will like it even less if you or Sam dies saving him,” Castiel retorts.

“We won’t die.”

“You cannot be sure of that.”

“What’s it take to kill a vampire, anyway?”

“He or she must be beheaded. In order to accomplish this task, one must know how to use the sword. I doubt you and Sam are experts with such a weapon.”

“Are you kidding? I was on the fencing team in high school.” Castiel gapes at her. “Yeah, that’s right. All-state champion with the sabre, two years in a row.”

“This would be different than your high school competitions.”

Jo rolls her eyes. “Well _duh_. I’m just tellin’ you that I’m not completely clueless.”

Castiel and Jo’s cell phones beep. Castiel glances down at his to read a message from Sam: _What happened to texting and not talking?_

“I don’t think we’re giving anything away,” Jo objects. “I mean, the dude’s gotta know we’re arming ourselves, right?”

“I think he is counting on it,” Castiel concurs. “It is part of his game. To outsmart him, we must discern his location without him knowing.”

“But if he’s gonna follow us, wouldn’t he know once we decide to head over there?”

“When we discover the hideout’s location, we can devise a way to make him lose sight of us.”

“Okay.” Jo types out a message, but when she is done, no one else’s phone makes a sound.

“Who’d you just text?” Sam inquires.

“Kevin.”

“Who is Kevin?” Castiel asks.

“The station psychologist. He’s been sayin’ he wants to visit Dean. I told him that Dean was sick. Y’know, to get him to shut up about it without making him suspicious.”

“Oh.”

Jo stands up. “So, when do we start?”

Castiel blinks. “Start what?”

“Fencing lessons.”

“There will be no—”

“Yes, there will. Right, Sam?”

“Uh. Yeah,” Sam replies.

“Right. I’ll practice when I’m not at work, and as soon as we get a viable tip . . . well, I’m comin’ to get you guys.”

“I’ll take off work so I can practice,” Sam decides.

“No, Sam, you should not do that,” Castiel argues.

“’Course I should. My brother’s more important than some job.”

“So, Cas?” Jo says. “What do ya wanna show us first?”

xxxxxxxxxx

The door cracks open, and a sliver of light floats in, blinding Dean. A searing headache develops, and he closes his eyes.

His stomach rumbles, and he’s shaking. Damn, he’s famished. The need for sustenance, for _blood_ , permeates every fiber of his being.

It seems as if he’s been stuck in this damn closet for hours, perhaps even days.

“Hey, Dean-o,” Alastair sibilates.

Dean squints up at Alastair. “Don’t call me that,” Dean rasps. It hurts to speak.

Alastair chuckles. “I bet you’re hungry, aren’t ya?” One emotionless blue eye stares down at him. “Wanna feed, don’t ya?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits.

Silver metal glints in Alastair’s hand. “You can join us for our meal.” Dean salivates instinctively. “On one condition. You carve it up for us.”

“What?” Dean breathes.

“Have some fun with our human. Make him scream.”

Torture some poor sap? No way in hell. “Fuck you.” Dean tries to shout the words, but instead they come out in shallow gasps.

“Such bad manners,” Alastair chides. He effects a pitying tone. “Oh, well. Guess you’ll have to starve.” The door closes. Dean bangs a fist against the door, but it doesn’t budge. So Alastair locked him back in. No surprise there.

His stomach growls, and he feels faint. He folds into himself and sobs.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean didn’t know it was possible to be this damn hungry. How long has it been since he’s had his last drop of blood? It seems like an eternity. Everything in his body screams for nourishment, for blood, and it makes him all weepy like some stupid baby. Like a child who wants mommy and daddy to come and fix everything.

Mommy and daddy aren’t coming. They’re gone, and it’s because of him. He could’ve saved them, and they must resent him for it.

Would Cas cradle and coddle him? Why does he desire that? It’s so damn humiliating. He’s a freakin’ adult, and a cop, and he should be able to devise some way to escape this damn place, but he can’t.

The door opens slightly, and a beam of light pierces his eyes. His mind fixates on the blade in Alastair’s hand. He can smell it, the human somewhere in the distance, and the gnawing in his stomach is drawn to it like a magnet. Before he’s aware of what he’s doing, he barrels past Alastair, finds the human, and sinks his teeth in. Within minutes, the specimen is drained, and Dean rips his teeth out of the dude’s neck. Only now does he take in the man’s features. Graying hair, brown eyes, skin a bit too tanned and wrinkled.

He’s just murdered a middle-aged man.

Triggered by the enormity of what he’s done, Dean gags. It doesn't stop, and his breathing becomes wheezy. He remembers hearing about how you should begin eating gradually if you haven't done it in a few days, and he wonders if he’s experiencing something related to that.

When it’s finished, he glances up as he continues to take heaving breaths. Four sets of eyes are staring back at him, their owners ringed in a semicircle around the man’s body. Meg. Azazel. Ruby. Gordon.

And behind Dean, approaching with heavy footsteps, Alastair.

A boot kicks at Dean’s calves. Dean falls to his knees, and he flashes back to that night in the warehouse. Back where it all began, where Alastair had slashed at his face and rendered it hideous.

“That was poorly done, Dean-o,” Alastair drawls from behind him. “You didn’t follow the rules of the game.”

“What game?” Dean attempts to hurl, but his voice comes out in a gasp.

“You’re supposed to make him beg for it.” Dean feels Alastair kneel behind him, clapping hands on his shoulders, pressing his chest into Dean’s back. Through jeans, Alastair’s erection brushes Dean’s ass, and yeah, Alastair is a deranged bastard all right.

He remembers the blood caked on Castiel’s thighs the night Dean had brought him home from Pontiac Baptist Church, and Dean wants nothing more than to go to town on this psycho who’d frickin’ _raped_ him.

Is that what Alastair has in mind now? Fucking Dean?

Alastair bites Dean’s shoulder, and he yelps. “Since you deprived us of our toy, Dean-o, we’re just gonna have to play with you.”

He positions himself halfway in front of Dean, rips open Dean’s shirt, buttons popping onto the carpet around them, and shoves Dean onto his back and straddles him. Alastair rests the point of his dagger on Dean’s chest and calls, “Meg, sweetheart, you mind giving me a hand?”

“Love to,” Meg replies as she steps forward and crouches next to Dean. She draws a blade and places its point next to Alastair’s. They slice diagonally, Meg toward his right flank, Alastair toward his left.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean screams.

Alastair slaps him, and his lip recoils between his teeth. Dean tastes blood, _his_ blood. “No talking,” Alastair commands.

As the duo carves into his chest, Dean bites his lip to keep himself from crying out. It doesn’t prevent tears from spilling down his cheeks, however.

“Now,” Alastair intones as he stands up, his feet planted on either side of Dean while Meg resumes her spot with the others, all of whom sneer down at Dean. “No more free meals for you. You have to _earn_ them. Cut into the meat. Otherwise, we will cut into you.” Alastair examines his fingernails before looking down at Dean. “Got it?”

Dean sits up, spits onto one of Alastair’s patent leather boots, and mutters, “Fuck you!”

Alastair crushes Dean’s fingers with one boot and kicks into Dean’s side with the other. And goddammit, Dean whimpers like a freakin’ _dog_. New tears spring to his eyes, and he swears he hears the crunch of the bones in his fingers. Maybe the wound’ll heal quickly, but it still friggin’ _hurts_.

“Got it?” Alastair repeats. Ever so slightly, Dean nods.

xxxxxxxxxx

Alone in the dark, Dean can’t tell how much time passes. When he accidentally brushes his knuckles against his bare chest, he reflexively attempts to button up his shirt, always forgetting that the buttons are gone. It reeks in here. Alastair had tossed a bucket into the closet at one point and told Dean to utilize it when he needed to use the bathroom. Initially, Dean had had to grope around for the bucket, but eventually he’d memorized the feel of every object in this meager space.

It’s difficult to breathe, not only because of the smell, but also the limited air supply. He’s surprised he hasn’t suffocated yet; he guesses that vampires don’t need as much oxygen as humans.

But what consumes him is the hunger, the need. His hollow stomach, which seems to have begun feeding on itself bit by bit. Torturing his insides.

Periodically, Alastair will pop in and implore Dean to come “play” with him and the others, and Dean will yell, “fuck off!” or something equivalent.

But one day, he can no longer endure the gnawing pain in his belly.

So when Alastair opens the door and asks if Dean would like to join the others, Dean says yes.

Maybe he can do it again, rapidly drain the captive. Alastair might use his sword on him once more, but at least he would’ve fed and spared the person any further pain.

Dean struggles to his feet, but Alastair blocks the way out, his hands clamped around the doorframe. “I warn you, Dean-o,” Alastair stipulates in that disgusting oily voice of his. “If you try to pull what you did last time, you’re history. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales.

Alastair grips Dean’s upper arm and steers him to the room he’d raced into last time he’d been outside the closet. He surveys the room and notes a light brown carpet spattered with droplets of blood, a black leather sofa, an antique-looking floor lamp, and a big-screen TV. There’s also a glass coffee table, which has been pushed against a wall.

In the middle of the room lies a girl who can’t be more than eighteen. She has wide, brown, innocent eyes. Disheveled brown hair. A flowery blue dress that stops just below her knees.

Cuts on her arms, her legs. A tube hooked up to her clavicle, siphoning blood into a large white ceramic bowl. Alastair’s nest surrounding her, holding knives that drip with blood.

Alastair releases Dean’s arm, and Dean lunges toward her neck; she deserves to be put out of her misery. But Alastair catches him mid-motion and yanks him backward. “What did I say, Dean?” Alastair reminds him. “You wanna be toast?”

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to die, he reflects. But no. No, he wants to live; that’s why Cas turned him. It would be shitty to repay Cas’s kindness by letting Alastair kill him a few weeks later.

“Or do you wanna feed?” Fuck, yeah, he wants the blood. “Because if you wanna eat, you’ve gotta earn it,” Alastair says with a menacing grin. He proffers a knife to Dean. Dean accepts, clutching the haft with a sweaty palm. “Go for her face, Dean-o,” he orders.

Dean’s so damn hungry he’ll do anything for a drink.

He bends down and raises the knife aloft, amazed at how shiny the blade is in the light cast by the lamp.

None of this is real.

He drags the dagger across the girl’s cheekbone.


	18. We Are Neither of Us Saints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains torture.
> 
> I had an unexpected day off today due to snow, so I finished up this chapter. I've been looking forward to writing the last scene here, so I was eager to get to it. (That also means that I'm very nervous about it.) 
> 
> This fic has more kudos than any of my other ones, which I'm excited about. I never expected to get more than 100 kudos on anything, so thanks for stopping by and sticking around for this story! As always, feedback is welcome! 
> 
> Finally, there probably won't be an update until this weekend at the earliest. Also, I just got a [tumblr](http://angelofthemoor.tumblr.com/); feel free to follow me!

Dean despises what he’s become.

He’s helped Alastair’s nest torture three people, mercilessly so, before snuffing them out.

He made a mistake. He doesn’t want to live at any cost. Yes, Cas saved his life, but not so he could do _this_. If Cas knew what Dean had become, he would want nothing more to do with him.

Hell, _Dean_ doesn’t want anything more to do with his own damn self.

After Dean feeds on the third victim, Alastair locks him into the closet, abandoning him there until he’s grown unbearably famished once again. When Alastair drags him out of the closet, his body quivers with the need for sustenance.

This time, he and Alastair are alone. Alastair hands him a dagger and says, “You know what to do, Dean-o.”

Unlike with the other victims, no one has yet touched this woman; her skin is pristine. Dean observes her cropped black hair, her terrified gray eyes. She’s probably in her mid-thirties, he judges. Her wrists and ankles have been bound with rope.

The buck stops here, Dean decides.

He holds the knife out to Alastair, hilt-first, and says, “No.”

“No? What do you mean, no?” Alastair hurls.

“No means no.” Dean’s surprised at how calm he sounds. “I won’t do this anymore.”

Alastair directs a baleful gaze at him, and Dean takes a step back. “You will die, you know. If you don’t do as I command.”

“I know,” Dean says softly. He inclines his head and declares, “So be it.”

Alastair’s lips curl into a grin, the motion effortlessly menacing. “Don’t think you’re getting off that easily, Dean-o.”

Dean backs up until he hits the wall. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he manages to croak.

Alastair stalks toward Dean with a sinister grace, until he’s crowding into Dean’s personal space, breath wafting into Dean’s face. Dude’s breath is rank, Dean muses. “It means,” Alastair intones, “that others will die as well.”

“What?” Dean breathes, leaning his head as far back as he can. Still, it’s not enough to escape the cold puffs of air hitting his skin as Alastair speaks.

“That goody-goody vampire friend of yours? What do you call him? Mmm, Cas.”

Rage boils underneath Dean’s skin. How dare he threaten Cas? How dare he even use that name? Cas. Alastair has no right to shorten the name.

“And your baby brother? Sammy?”

“Don’t you _dare_ call him that,” Dean warns.

“Oh, Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean,” Alastair chides. “You are in no position to threaten me.” He gives Dean a pointed look. “Now. You _will_ cooperate, unless you wish to be responsible for the deaths of people you love.”

Love? _Love?!_ How can a psychopath like Alastair know anything of love? What does he mean about love, anyway? ’Course, he loves Sammy, ’cause their brothers, but Cas . . . well, Cas is just . . .

_Cas_.

Cas is more than a buddy to him, Dean recognizes with a shock. The warmth evoked by the idea of Cas, _his Cas_ , burns too strongly—

“Did you not realize you are in love?” Alastair imbues his taunt with a dose of faux sympathy. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Fuck you,” Dean spouts. Alastair merely laughs. “Why do you care, anyway?”

“Pardon?”

“Why do you care if I join in your sick games? Why won’t you just let me die and be done with it?”

Alastair’s smile is pure joy. “Because. I know you, Dean-o.—”

“You don’t know jackshit about me!”

“Ah, but I do. You have the potential to be my star protégé. Even more so than Meg.” It’s pretty obvious that Meg is Alastair’s favorite. He accords her more privileges than the others, including her father, who seems to be about as messed up as Alastair. Shit, no wonder Meg is a psycho bitch, with a dad like that.

Who the fuck cares about Meg? “What if I don’t want to be your damn protégé?”

Alastair caresses Dean’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, and Dean has never been so disgusted by a touch in his life. “But you do. If you want the people you love to remain alive.”

“ _Fine_.”

This is not real, Dean tells himself. Any minute now, he’ll wake up from this neverending nightmare. It’s okay if he participates, because it’s not really happening.

Alastair shifts away, and Dean approaches the woman. Alastair praises him as he slices into her, again and again, until her body is covered with wounds.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean’s full, and he’s been locked back into the narrow darkness. He’d torn that poor woman apart. _Him_ , all by himself, with Alastair watching, interfering only to connect a couple of tubes from the woman’s throat to that freakin’ ceramic bowl.

He _hates_ this. Hates himself. He’s a fucking monster. Because—

Because, though he tries hard to deny the truth, he _enjoyed_ doling out the pain. To have such power, to be able to hurt people just as you’ve been hurt.—

That must’ve been what Alastair had seen inside him. The guy’s right. Surely a monster would recognize one of its kind?

Dean bows his head and covers his face with his arms, sobbing more than he ever remembers doing, not even when Mom and Dad died. He’d held it in at the time, and now it’s as if every ounce of melancholy long buried in his heart comes pouring out.

He wants to die. Why can’t Alastair just kill him? What if he begs Alastair to kill him? Can he die then?

But what if Alastair really does kill Cas and Sammy afterward? Dean would be responsible, and it’s his duty to keep them safe, if he can.

The only way to save them is to destroy himself. To release the darkness that lies somewhere within.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Jo lets herself into the house, not even bothering to ring the doorbell. Sam gave her a key since she would be coming over so often. She grimaces as she shakes the water off of her umbrella and tosses it to the ground beside the door before joining Sam on the couch. Castiel switches his attention from the program on TV ( _Dr. Sexy_ , which he’s been viewing in order to ascertain why Dean likes it so much) to the other two.

“Any news?” Sam prompts.

“Nope,” Jo sighs. “All the leads turned out to be duds. Again.”

“We need a new approach,” Castiel asserts. It has been over a week since Dean’s disappearance, which means that Dean has now been with Alastair longer than Castiel was. When Dean had discovered him at Pontiac Baptist Church, Castiel had been on the brink of death. Thus, Dean could be dead by now . . .

_No_. Castiel refuses to believe that. Dean is _not_ dead. They can find him. They _will_ find him.

“Like what?” Sam replies. “You’re always reminding us that Alastair and his people are watching us.”

“Yes, but—” Castiel pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and taps a message, which he sends to both Sam and Jo. _Perhaps we can slip out of their sight._

Sam: _How? You said yourself that they’re faster than us. Unless you’re able to do it?_

Castiel: _That depends upon whom the scout is. Gordon and Ruby are the only ones I am certain I could shrug off._

Jo: _Why do you need to shrug them off? Why can’t you just kill them?_

Castiel contemplates the question for a minute before responding, _I am afraid that Alastair might take his wrath out on Dean if we harm a member of his nest._

Jo: _Oh. So that’s a no go._

Castiel: _Correct. I have been thinking. Alastair’s nest consists of five vampires. How likely is it that three of them are watching us?_

Sam: _Why wouldn’t three of them be watching us?_

Castiel: _At least one of them would be hunting for victims. Another one would guard Dean at the hideout._

Sam: _Five of them is still enough for them to do that and watch us._

Castiel: _Yes. But Dean, even if he is vulnerable, is strong. I believe that they would require at least two of them to guard Dean at most times._

Sam: _Okay. So how’re we supposed to know which one of us they’re not watching?_

Castiel: _They are definitely watching me._

Jo: _I bet it’s me they’re not watching._

Sam: _Why?_

Jo: _Because. Cas is the biggest threat, obviously. Sam, you’re spending all your time learning how to use the sword and looking for Dean, but I’m going to work. Half of what I do has nothing to do with them._

Castiel: _As a member of the police force, you do expend a great amount of time pursuing leads about the serial killer._

Jo: _Yeah. But you said it yourself, right? The cops are no threat to them. That’s why we’ve gotta kill them instead of arresting them._

Castiel: _Yes._

Sam: _Okay, so what if they’re not watching Jo? How’s that gonna help us?_

Castiel: _She could drive around looking for any signs. Inefficient, of course, but it is something._

Jo: _I’m an eagle-eyed cop, Cas._

Castiel: _So was Dean, as a human._

Jo: _Yeah, but I’m better._ A giggle escapes through Castiel's lips.

Sam: _Okay. So, how’s that supposed to help? Jo can’t go in alone if she finds Alastair’s place._

Castiel: _Of course not. But she can text message us if she finds it. Then we can go over there and attempt to dispel whoever attempts to stop us._

Sam: _And if we can’t?_

That is a legitimate concern, and Castiel does not know the answer. It appears that neither Sam nor Jo have any ideas, either. After pondering the question, Castiel concludes, _We will just have to risk it._

“Yeah,” Jo mutters.

At dawn, after a long night of fencing practice with Sam and Jo, Castiel crawls into bed and draws the blankets up to his chin. If they retrieve Dean— _when_ they retrieve Dean—Castiel will insist that Dean and he share a bed every night. He will wrap his arms around Dean, and Dean will be safe. He will sleep well. He will not toss and turn as he does now, with nightmarish images parading through his mind. The morning after Anna and Michael had turned him, when he’d devoured that innocent girl without any hesitation. The humans Anna and Michael had toyed with, and him joining in, afraid of doing otherwise. Enjoying it then feeling sick to his stomach afterward.

Then there is Benny, dying over and over. Castiel failing to save him, slicing Abaddon’s throat one nanosecond too late.

Alastair wringing everything out of Castiel.

Alastair wringing everything out of Dean.

The last one is what he fears the most. Everything else . . . they are flashbacks. Reliving those memories hurts, but he cannot change the past. But Dean . . . he suffers more for every second he remains in Alastair’s clutches, and each second is a result of Castiel’s failure to save him.  

Castiel has not spoken to God since he has been turned. Which is odd, he reflects, because he did train for the clergy. He had been devout, until that pivotal night with Anna and Michael Milton. After that, he had given up on God, too consumed by base instinct and self-loathing. If there was a God, he’d thought, why would He allow such unholy creatures to roam free and strike with impunity?

No, there was no God, he had decided. Or if God did exist, he held no respect for Him. Perhaps what had happened with Anna and Michael had been a test, and one that Castiel had failed. But if God would give him that sort of test, then what kind of God was He?

Castiel does not know what he believes anymore. Dean possesses the brightest, most righteous soul that Castiel has ever seen. If God truly exists, and if God is good, then surely He would wish to save Dean?

Castiel closes his eyes, and for the first time in over two hundred years, he prays.

xxxxxxxxxx

Alastair has given Dean free rein of the house. On the surface, this is much better than being stuck in the damn closet, because now at least he can freakin’ breathe without being afraid the air will run out.

But this is worse, because he knows he could easily escape. Even with Alastair always here, there are possibilities. But Alastair is not concerned one bit, and he has no need to be, because Dean will not attempt to leave.

Sammy and Cas. If Dean runs, Alastair will kill one of them, perhaps both. He cannot risk them to save himself. Alastair could be bluffing, but Dean doesn’t want to take that chance. The bastard obviously knows where Dean lives, which grants him easy access to them.

Everyone but Alastair gives Dean a wide berth. The first day Dean had spent outside the closet, Gordon had goaded him into a fight. Azazel and Ruby had encouraged Gordon, and they had been eager to join the fray, but then Alastair had pried Gordon away and warned the others never to touch Dean.

So they mostly ignore him, except Meg, who glares at him with envious eyes. They all know it—Alastair is grooming Dean as he would a favorite pet.

Dean doesn’t want to be fuckin’ _groomed_ by Alastair; he hates this, all of it, but most of all he’s horrified at how deeply the darkness extends inside himself. Every time Alastair hands him the damn knife, bloodlust takes over, and the bliss of pure violence encapsulates him, transforms him into something he wishes he’d never known he could be.

But if he must become a monster to protect Sammy and Cas, so be it.

xxxxxxxxxx

Alastair, Gordon, and Dean are taking turns drinking blood from the white ceramic bowl when Meg bursts in with a young man in her arms, his wrists and hands bound tightly by rope, a piece of duct tape covering his mouth. When she tosses the man to the ground, blonde strands stick up from atop his head. Alastair, Gordon, and Dean jump to their feet while Meg kneels beside the man and pulls out her dagger.

“Put that away, Meg,” Alastair orders.

Meg rolls disbelieving dark brown eyes up to Alastair. “What?”

“I said, put it away, sweetheart,” Alastair repeats, his tone brooking no disagreement.

“ _Fine_ ,” she snaps as she stands up.

Alastair hands Dean a knife and implores, “Would you do the honors?” _Initiate the game_ , he means.

“Love to,” Dean replies automatically as he accepts the blade. He crouches down beside the man, whose light brown eyes are petrified. Dean feels a smile spreading over his lips. He rips off the duct tape, and the man squirms. “I like to hear ’em scream,” Dean says. The man can scream for both of them.

Dean slices the man’s black T-shirt down the middle and tears it open. He presses the blade to the base of the man’s neck and cuts from there down to the guy’s belly button, blood gushing everywhere. The man shrieks, and Dean merely licks the blood clean, first from the knife then the man’s chest, and laughs.

Carving this guy up is an art, and Alastair and Gordon’s chuckles indicate that he is doing a good job. With their approval, he glows inside, and his carving grows more intricate. He doesn’t understand why Meg is silent, so at one point he glances up at her. She’s tapping her right foot against the carpet, frowning down at him, arms crossed over her chest. Well, if she doesn’t appreciate his work, screw her, the dumb jealous pig.

When his turn is finished, Meg has only the scraps to play with.

xxxxxxxxxx

When Dean visits the bathroom, he throws up all the blood he’d drunk. He can’t ever go back to Sammy and Cas, not after what he’s done.

xxxxxxxxx

The sun has just set, and Castiel is scouring the newspaper for any clues that could help them find Alastair. Jo is at work, as per usual, and Sam is shopping for groceries. There had been a story this morning about a new victim, some John Doe around twenty-five whose shirt and jeans had been torn to ribbons. The carvings on the human’s body had been more detailed than with the others, which the police have taken to mean that the serial killer got bored and started experimenting with new tactics. Castiel does not know what to make of the change in method.

Loud footsteps at the front door interrupt the quiet. They do not sound like those of Sam or Jo. He creeps toward the door to investigate, and the footsteps recede into the opposite direction. Frowning, he opens the door and surveys the area outside, but no one is in sight. He notices something white peeking out from above the mailbox and retrieves the slip of paper. Unfolding it, he reads:

> _If you wish to see your precious Officer Winchester again, be at the warehouse in one hour. You know which one. If you’re even one second late, he’s dead._
> 
> _If you bring anyone with you, he’s dead._

Alastair. But why wait until now to contact Castiel?

Castiel tucks the note into his pocket. It is a trap, certainly, but Castiel must do anything he can to prevent Dean’s death, trap or not.

Inside, Castiel grabs his sword and the keys to Dean’s Impala. Not wanting to get Sam’s hopes up, he doesn’t call Sam when he leaves.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean and Alastair are alone in the house when, with a crushing grip on Dean’s wrist, Alastair drags him outside. He shoves Dean toward a red Mercedes Benz and growls, “Get in.”

Dean obeys, and Alastair ensconces himself behind the driver’s seat. When Alastair switches on the ignition, Dean ventures, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Alastair replies. Dean observes as Alastair navigates the streets, eventually stopping at an abandoned warehouse.

The warehouse where everything began.

What the fuck are they doing here?

Dean follows Alastair inside, and Alastair says, “Your Cas won’t leave me alone. Seems he’s keen on getting you back.” Heat rushes to Dean’s face; Cas wouldn’t want him back now, not if he knew what Dean had become. “So. I am giving him a choice that will rid me of the nuisance.” Empty blue eyes bore into Dean’s. “I will tell him that he has fifteen minutes to talk to you. If he can convince you to leave voluntarily, I will let you go. If not, you shall remain with me. Of course, you will not leave.”

“Why not?” Dean asks in a whisper.

“Because. If you make that choice, he shall die.” Dean hears his own sharp intake of breath. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“No,” Dean exhales.

“Very good. I shall meet him outside.” As Alastair stalks away, Dean reflects that he wouldn’t leave with Cas anyway, even if he had a real choice. He can never look Cas in the eye again, not after what he’s done. Cas doesn’t want a monster like him. Cas doesn’t deserve a monster like him.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel parks near the warehouse and takes a minute to gather himself before walking toward it. He spots Alastair’s vehicle near the warehouse. He waits beside the entrance until Alastair steps outside. “Alastair,” Castiel hisses.

Alastair makes a displeased face, as if he is disappointed that Castiel would be so impolite. Castiel could strangle him at that moment, but he won’t. The other vampires might be with Dean, and they might kill him if Castiel beheads their leader. “Good evening, Castiel,” Alastair greets him.

Castiel crosses his arms over his chest and glares at Alastair. “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries and get to the point.”

“Tsk. So rude.” Castiel gazes back at Alastair with steely composure. This man, who would have destroyed him if Dean had not been there to pick up the pieces. This man, who had dug so deeply inside him that Castiel knew he could never be fixed. He experiences a momentary panic and takes an involuntarily step back. Alastair sneers at him, and Castiel resumes his stony expression. Alastair shrugs. “Have it your way. Cas.” Alastair is trying to intimidate him. He will _not_ indulge Alastair, Castiel tells himself. “Here’s the deal. You can have your Dean-o back. Gratis.”

“What is the catch?” Castiel asks warily.

“Why must there be a catch?” Castiel narrows his eyes, and Alastair throws up his hands. “Fine, fine. The stipulation is this: if Dean refuses to go with you, he stays with me.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. Why would Dean refuse to come with him? Surely that cannot be all there is to it? “What else?” Castiel prompts.

“What else? Ah, let’s see.” Alastair scratches his chin as if he is considering something. “Oh, yes. If he refuses, you must allow me to kill you once and for all.”

That cannot be everything; the proposition sounds too easy. But whatever the truth, Castiel must take the risk. This could be his only chance to rescue Dean. “You have a deal,” Castiel answers.

“Shall we shake on it?”

“If you wish,” Castiel replies coldly. A handshake means nothing to Alastair, he knows, but he will go along with the charade.

When Alastair releases Castiel’s hand, he gestures toward the entrance. “You may go in now. You have fifteen minutes.” Castiel gives a curt nod before stepping inside.

There he is. Dean, a mere few feet away from Castiel, and he looks miserable. As Castiel approaches, Dean says, “Stop. Don’t come any closer.” Castiel remains where he is, staring at Dean with confusion.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes.

“Go away.”

The words strike through his heart like daggers. Why would Dean want him to go away, after all they have been through together? Doesn’t he mean as much to Dean as Dean means to him? Of course he cannot, Castiel realizes. He is a monster who made Dean into another monster.

But what about the time they had spent together, body heat mingling, the sweet ecstasy they had shared . . .

“Dean,” Castiel repeats. “Alastair says I can have you back if you come with me. I am not sure I believe him, but we can try. If he attempts to prevent us from leaving, we can think of a way to escape. Especially if he is the only one here?”

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

Castiel attempts a smile. “All right then.” He steps toward Dean, and Dean steps back. Why does Dean continue to reject him? He does not understand.

“Sorry, Cas. Uh. I can’t come with you.”

“Why not?” Castiel’s voice comes out in a whine.

Dean’s face darkens. “You wouldn’t want me.”

Those words, another blow to Castiel’s heart. “What? Of course I want you, Dean. How could I not?”

“I’ve done things—terrible things.”

What is Dean talking about? Whatever it is, it’s irrelevant. “Please, Dean. Come with me.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.” Tears leak out of Dean’s eyes. “I . . . _No_. It’s my final answer.”

“Dean. Please, Dean. Come back to me.”

“I said _no_.” Castiel sees the sincerity in Dean’s eyes, and he does not care about anything anymore. He draws his sword and slits his wrist. “What the fuck!” Dean yells, eyes widening.

Castiel extends the wrist toward Dean. If Dean will not come with Castiel, Alastair will kill him. Probably drain Castiel by himself. If anyone drains Castiel, it should be Dean. “I’d rather you have it than him,” Castiel explains.

“What?”

“Take my blood.”

Castiel strides toward Dean until he is inches away and thrusts the wrist at him. Dean recoils and mutters, “No.”

“No? Please, Dean. I do not want Alastair—” Castiel can hear himself almost sobbing.

Dean looks troubled and covers the cut with both hands. “Cas. I cannot come with you. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Castiel whimpers.

Dean averts his eyes. “I have done things.”

“What _things_?” Castiel demands.

“With Alastair.” Sorrow dominates those green eyes, and Castiel wishes he could wipe it away. “I helped him . . . hurt people.”

“Oh,” Castiel says dumbly.

“Yeah. It’s okay. I know you don’t want me anymore.”

Castiel clasps Dean’s shoulder, and Dean wiggles out of his grasp and drops his hand. “I have done things, too,” Castiel tells him.

“What? Like torture that friggin’ rapist? Not the same.”

“No. Well, yes, that. But I have also . . . with Anna and Michael.” Dean watches him with solemn eyes. “Innocent people.” Tears blur Castiel’s vision. “Dean. We are neither of us saints. That does not mean we cannot be better people. Not perfect, but better.” Castiel moves closer to Dean. One more time, he pleads, “Please. Come back to me, Dean. Come back to me.”

Dean stays still for a moment, and Castiel’s heart sinks further. Then he envelops Castiel in an embrace, and Castiel whispers fiercely into Dean’s hair. “I love you. I love you I love you I love you.”

Dean pulls back and murmurs, “Cas. It’s a trap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm worried that, toward the end of the chapter, Castiel could seem too gullible. I hope I made it clear that he was fully aware of what he might be walking into. He knew it was probably the stupidest thing he could do, but he was willing to risk it to save Dean.


	19. All Together Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was able to update this fic sooner than I'd thought. This chapter is entirely from Dean's POV, but Cas's POV will be back in the next chapter.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://angelofthemoor.tumblr.com/) now, if you'd like to follow me there or get in touch with me. I don't use it much at the moment, but maybe I'll use it more in the future.

Dean puts the pieces together when Cas slices open his wrist and starts babbling about blood and Alastair. That’s when it hits Dean: Alastair has no intention of letting Cas live beyond this night.

He has to get Cas out of there somehow, even if he can’t go with him. Dean begins explaining the situation when Cas insists on knowing Dean’s reasons for not accompanying him. So Dean tells Cas about what he’s done. That should show Cas that Dean isn’t worthy of him.

Instead, Cas confesses to his own sins. It’s written all over Cas’s face, the heartbreak, as he begs, “Please. Come back to me, Dean. Come back to me.”

Dean can’t resist. Not anymore, with Cas looking so gutted.

He scoops Cas into an embrace.

Cas whispers three words in a litany, “I love you,” and Dean throws that on the backburner for now. He’s not sure how to respond, but he can worry about that later. First, Cas has to survive tonight.

Dean draws away from Cas and warns, “Cas. It’s a trap.”

Cas chews his bottom lip thoughtfully, expression sober, yet a sparkle of happiness accentuates the blue of his eyes. “I suspected as much,” he replies.

Of course he did. Cas isn’t a dumbass. So what the fuck is he doing here? “You did, huh?” Dean challenges. His voice grows louder. “Then why the hell did you come?!”

“To get you.”

“That was stupid,” Dean snaps.

“I do not care.”

Whatever _._ There’s no use arguing about this at the moment. They need to focus on what they’re gonna do when Alastair returns, which could be any minute now. Dean has a vision of him and Cas dying together in this warehouse as they fend off Alastair. Idiotic romantic cliché, but it really could happen if he and Cas don’t get their act together.

“You brought your sword?” Dean asks.

Cas pats his side, where his sword usually lies underneath the trenchcoat. “Yes.”

“Right. So. Alastair’s all we’ve got to deal with.” _That’s all_ , he says to himself sarcastically.

As if on cue, Alastair strides in through the front door. A split second later, Meg, Gordon, and Azazel approach from different directions. _Crap_. Dean should’ve known that Alastair would bring the whole gang.

Alastair beams. “Hello, Cas. As you can see, we have you surrounded.”

“It’s Castiel,” Cas hurls through clenched teeth.

“Excuse me?”

“I said,” Cas enunciates deliberately, “that my name is Castiel.”

“Well, aren’t you _precious_.” Alastair stalks toward Cas and grasps his chin with one hand, forcing Cas to look into his empty eyes. “Like a ferocious mama cat. Oh, I just love a fighting spirit. Remember?” Cas pales, and if Dean could, he would throttle Alastair right there. Alastair releases Cas and tosses a knife to Dean. When Dean catches it, he says, “Why don’t you get us started, Dean-o?”

“What?” Dean responds.

Alastair shoves Cas against the wall and presses a finger to his Adam’s apple. “You get first crack at ’em.”

Dean freezes, mouth agape. Alastair had told him that he would allow Cas to live if Dean rejected him. Turns out that Alastair had planned to kill Cas regardless. And now he wants Dean to initiate the nest’s assault on Cas? What was the point of that earlier part? To hurt Cas as much as possible? Fuck, the dude really is the world’s biggest psychopath.

Why does he think Dean would cooperate with these shenanigans? Yes, Dean had resigned himself to joining Alastair’s nest. His bloodlust had grown to startling heights, but Alastair had overestimated how thoroughly he’d converted Dean.

Dean holds the dagger at waist-level, blade pointing downward, and answers, “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You _will_ do as I say. Or you can kiss that little brother of yours good-bye.”

Sammy’s his bargaining chip, huh? It gives Dean pause, but he quickly quells any hesitation. No matter the stakes, Dean can’t do that to Cas. Besides, if Alastair had been bluffing about sparing Cas, that might also be true for Sam. Dean shakes his head and resolutely gazes back at Alastair.

“Pity,” Alastair sighs.

“I smell humans,” Azazel chimes in.

Alastair waves a hand at him. “Ruby will take care of them.” He turns to Dean and snarls, “I’ll deal with _you_ later.” He focuses his attention on Cas and levels the tip of his sword at the base of Cas’s neck, where a small drop of blood forms. The smell of Cas’s blood intoxicates Dean, captivates him . . . he wonders if the other vampires feel it, too, or if the sensation stems from his connection with Cas.

Footsteps pound on the pavement outside, coming closer, and eventually they grow so loud that everyone eyes the doorway.

Jo and Sam stroll through the entrance, both wielding swords, Jo’s dripping with blood. Jo grins and announces, “Your guard wasn’t very effective.”

Dean gawks at them, dumbfounded, as do the other vampires.

Cas seizes the opportunity and elbows Alastair in the nose. Alastair howls, stumbles backward, and clutches his nose.

Chaos erupts.

Cas draws his sword and lunges toward Alastair. Jo and Sam join the fray, engaging Gordon and Meg, respectively. Which leaves Dean with—

Freakin’ _Azazel_.

Great. Alastair’s second-in-command, and all Dean’s got is a goddamn _dagger_.

Azazel swings his sword at Dean, and Dean hops out of the way in time to avoid sustaining a hit. The blade skims off a square of Dean’s sleeve, however, and a scrap of brown leather flutters to the ground.

“Hell _no_ ,” Dean growls. “You did _not_ just ruin my jacket.” Azazel sneers and aims another strike at Dean; Dean somehow manages to parry it with his knife. Azazel tries again, and Dean deflects once more. This continues for what feels like hours, and Dean’s fingers begin slipping on the dagger. He’s hanging on to the weapon by the tips of his fingers, then his fingernails. Azazel knocks the thing out of Dean’s hand and traps Dean against the wall, chortling. Dean smirks.

He’s not above going for the low blow, especially when it involves sadistic bastards like Alastair and his goons, so he knees Azazel in the balls. Azazel doubles over in pain, cradles his stomach with one hand, and glares at Dean. With Azazel distracted, Dean snatches the sword out of Azazel’s grip and reverses their positions, slamming Azazel into the wall. Azazel grimaces and gives Dean a withering look.

“Sayonara, _asshole_ ,” Dean declares as he slashes cleanly through Azazel’s neck. His head lolls off his shoulders and rolls onto the ground, reminding Dean of a soccer ball. Wide eyes, mostly empty yet still bearing a glimmer of cruelty, stare up at Dean. It’s pretty gross, but Dean’s so friggin’ _psyched_ about actually defeating the motherfucker that he whoops in triumph. Smiling, he whirls around.

Everyone else isn’t faring so well. Jo’s lying on the ground, Meg towering over her. Sam tries to sneak up on Meg from behind, but she hears him and kicks backward at his shins. Sam stumbles, and Meg raises her sword to Jo.

“Hey!” Dean yells. She whips her head around to face him. As she absorbs the sight before her, her dad dead on the ground and Dean brandishing his sword, fury overtakes her futures. She shrieks like a harpy and rushes toward Dean. Dean jumps out of her way, but she’s quick, moving along with him. They spar, and despite himself, Dean’s impressed. Her skills rival those of her father. After Jo and Sam have recovered, they dash toward Meg, apparently planning to grab one arm each. She turns her head just slightly, but it’s enough for Dean to disarm her. She pushes Jo and Sam halfway across the room, and they fall to the ground. Dean raises his sword, but Meg scurries away, her legs faster than Dean’s. “Don’t think this is the last you’ve heard from me,” she spits at Dean before fleeing through one of the side entrances.

Where the hell is Gordon? Must’ve got away, Dean surmises. He spots Cas, who’s been cornered by Alastair on the far side of the warehouse. Cas appears to have lost his sword, and he’s cringing against the wall, Alastair poised to strike.—

Dean’s too far away to stop it.

Before Dean can process what’s happening, a sword lodges in Alastair’s throat, the point piercing through to the other side. Cas bends to avoid the tip of the blade and ducks away from Alastair.

Dean wonders where the magic flying sword came from. After a minute, he notices that Sam’s hand is positioned as if he’s just thrown something.

“How on earth did you do that, Sammy?” Dean marvels, mouth hanging open.

Sam shrugs. “I dunno. Got lucky, I guess.”

“That’s some luck,” Dean mutters.

“Yeah. Figured it was worth a shot.”

Cas smiles at Sam. “Thank you, Sam,” he says. “You saved my life.”

Blood gushes out of the wound in Alastair’s throat. Sam and Cas approach him, and Jo and Dean join them a second later.

“Is he dying?” Sam asks.

‘It will take hours for him to bleed out completely,” Cas answers. He surveys the warehouse. “I see that Azazel is no more,” he observes.

“I did that,” Dean brags, and Cas’s eyes linger on him fondly. “I think Meg and Gordon got away,” he continues.

“We can handle them.”

“We’ve got the kingpin.”

“Yes.”

An idea occurs to Dean. He’s not sure if it’s appropriate, but he doesn’t want to discuss it with Sam and Jo present. For now, he suggests, “Why don’t we take him up to your cabin, Cas?”

“Why?” Sam butts in.

Cas ignores him, his lips forming a cold smile. “Yes.” Using his sword, Cas knocks Alastair into unconsciousness with a blow to the head.

“What’re you guys doin’?” Sam inquires.

“Vampire business,” Dean murmurs. He narrows his eyes at Sam and Jo. “What the hell were you thinkin’, comin’ here!” he hollers.

“You’re welcome for _saving your ass_!” Jo retorts.

“Thank you, Jo. I assure you that Dean and I are very grateful,” Cas inserts.

“See? At least _he_ knows how to be courteous.” Dean rolls his eyes.

“I am curious, though,” Cas asserts. “Why did you come here?”

“Turning traitor, are you?” Jo glowers.

“No. I apologize; that is not what I meant. Let me rephrase. How did you know you would find us here?”

“Oh. Well. When Sam got home from the store, he called and said you were gone. I figured that Dean would be the only reason you’d leave without telling Sam.” She flashes a cheeky smile. “So. Here we are.”

Cas frowns. “But how did you know we would be _here_? In this warehouse?”

“Police intuition.” Dean makes a face. “Oh, shut up, Dean, just ’cause you don’t have it doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

“It made sense, that Alastair would lure you here,” Sam chimes in.

“Yeah. Serial Killer Psychology 101.”

“Whatever,” Dean mumbles. “Let’s get outta here. Cas, you gonna help me take Alastair to the car?” Cas nods. “Great.” He turns to Sam and Jo. Bless those kids, they really did save Cas and Dean from a shitstorm. “Y’all can go home.”

“What’re you doing?” Sam insists. “Why don’t you just kill Alastair now?”

“We will, when the time’s right.”

“I don’t like—”

Jo tugs at Sam’s elbow. “C’mon, Sam. I’ll take ya home.” When she and Sam reach her police cruiser, she turns around and gives Cas and Dean an understanding look before she and Sam clamber into the car.

Dean and Cas drag Alastair’s body to the Impala. Dean doesn’t want Alastair’s blood to dirty up the interior, so he and Cas lay Alastair’s body on the ground while Dean scrounges around for a towel. He finds a raggedy one on the floorboard and spreads it out on the backseat, after which he and Cas heave Alastair inside. Cas proffers the keys to Dean and declares, “I took good care of her.”

“You better have,” Dean mutters gruffly. Cas dons that adorable small smile, and damn, Dean’s missed that.

“So,” Dean nervously begins once he’s on the road. “I’ve been thinkin’. How ’bout we give Alastair a taste of his own medicine?”

Cas’s face scrunches up in confusion, and Dean tries not to think about how cute he looks when he’s clueless. It’s an advantage of his status as a vampire, actually, that he can see Cas’s face so clearly in the dark. “What medicine?” Cas posits.

Dean hears the affection in his laugh. “It’s an expression, Cas. It means we do to him what he did to Cas. To all his victims.”

Cas is silent for a few minutes, and Dean’s afraid he might have offended him. Anxious, Dean chews the inside of his cheek. When Cas finally speaks, it startles him. “I think I would like that very much.” A glow of grim satisfaction settles around him, like that of a predator. It reminds Dean of the animal raging inside himself; perhaps it’s inside Cas, too.

Dean realizes he shouldn’t have been hesitant to bring up the idea about Alastair. After all, when he’d discovered Cas’s secret (it feels like so long ago; a lot has changed since that pivotal night), he’d been peeling skin off some rapist, feeding from the guy’s neck. The thought of drinking Alastair’s blood repulses Dean, but other things . . .

Yeah, he wants to hurt that motherfucker. Hurt him so bad that living is agony for him. Not only for what he did to Cas (though that’s reason enough), but for what he did to all those innocent people.

He hates that Alastair awakened his taste for bloodlust. Alastair only has himself to blame for what he and Cas do to him, Dean concludes.

Cas said that he’d had a similar experience with the Miltons. Did he develop an affinity for bloodlust then? Is that why he’d gone to town on that rapist?

It seems that a darkness resides inside Cas, just as it does in Dean. Where did it come from? Their vampirism? Or has it always been there, lying dormant until activated by the right conditions?

xxxxxxxxxx

Once they arrive at Cas’s cabin, Dean and Cas carry Alastair inside and lay him on the long table leaning against the wall. Dean remembers his first kiss with Cas, them rutting against each other on this very same table. It’s a little disconcerting, but something about it also excites him. He wonders if Cas and he can fuck on it when they’re done with Alastair, but he squashes the twisted thought.

They remove the sword from Alastair’s throat and tightly bind his wrists and ankles, running the rope underneath the table before tying it off on top of his skin. Dean sticks a wad of duct tape on his mouth, and Cas rummages around in his cabinet until he finds some ingredients. After mixing them together, he fills a syringe with the solution and injects it into Alastair.

“That should keep him unconscious for quite some time,” Cas states. “We should rest before we get started with him.” Cas’s dispassion is a bit unnerving, but his voice grows soft when he adds, “When was the last time you fed?”

“I dunno,” Dean answers, and his tummy rumbles as if to provide a clue.

“I shall obtain nourishment for us. Wait here.”

“You’re goin’ huntin’? Now, in the middle of the night?”

“It is the best time for our kind to venture outside,” Cas points out.

“I’m comin’.”

Cas gives him a sharp look. “No. You should stay here and rest.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes. You do.” Clearly, Cas isn’t gonna take no for an answer. They lock Alastair in the basement, and Cas dries his bloodied sword with a rag before heading outside. Dean kicks off his boots, stretches himself out on the couch, and flips on the TV. Nothing but a crapola fest, that. Fuckin’ network television. He eventually settles on _CSI_ , but it starts to irk him. Damn, he hates these stupid procedurals. He switches over to _Antiques Roadshow_ on PBS, a favorite show among bored old ladies. He becomes oddly fascinated by each appraisal, exclaiming “no freakin’ way!” when an ugly ass painting turns out to be worth three thousand dollars. Cas walks in on the tail end of it, a couple of dead squirrels in his hands, and raises his eyebrows. Poor things. It sucks that they’ve gotta kill animals, but it’s better than targeting humans. Besides, Dean reasons, how’s it much different than eating meat? They slaughter animals for that, too, and Dean would never reject a good bacon cheeseburger.

Damn, Dean misses solid food. But maybe he doesn’t have to do without; after all, Cas had eaten pancakes without being harmed by it.

“What are you watching?” Cas asks as he slides by Dean into the kitchen.

“What’s it look like?” Dean huffs.

Cas peeks around the entrance to the kitchen. “This doesn’t appear to be a program that would interest you. Though I must confess, I do enjoy it.”

Trust Cas to have old-fogey taste. “It’s not,” Dean agrees, “but there’s nothin’ on.”

“Ah.” Cas retreats to the kitchen, and the show catches Dean’s attention again. “Holy fuck!” Dean shouts when an appraiser deems a fancy schmancy table to be worth nine thousand dollars.

Cas returns to the living room with two glasses of blood, one of which he passes to Dean. “Was that excitement I just heard?” Cas gibes.

“No,” Dean answers a little too quickly. Cas grins.

“Move your feet, Dean. You’re taking up the whole couch,” Cas says.

“Ask nicely.” Cas stares at Dean incredulously, and Dean doesn’t budge. He sure as hell ain’t gonna be the one to surrender.

“I’ll just have to sit on them, then,” Cas determines as he crushes Dean’s feet underneath his ass.

“Ow!” Dean yells. He wiggles his feet against Cas’s butt until Cas lifts it up, after which Dean removes his feet and places them on Cas’s lap.

“Charming,” Cas deadpans as he sips his blood.

Dean drinks from his own glass and looks back at the TV. Cas begins rubbing Dean’s feet, and damn that feels good. Now a guy is assessing the value of an awesome stone sculpture, an angel wielding a sword, wings completely unfurled. The artist put an amazing amount of detail into the wings, which are impressively wide. The appraiser announces that the sculpture is worth only two hundred fifty dollars.

“Bullshit!” Dean objects. Cas removes his hands from Dean’s feet, and Dean peers over at him. Cas appears astonished. “What?” Dean grumbles.

“I thought you did not enjoy this program.”

“I don’t!” Dean maintains, face heating up. “But you shoulda seen this hideous painting that was worth three thousand dollars. But that badass statue is a measly two fifty?”

Cas’s smile is teasing. “Admit it. You enjoy the show.”

“Do not.”

“You do.”

“Do not.”

Cas sighs. “Must you behave like a child?” Dean elects to drain his cup in lieu of replying.

Dean shuts off the TV when the show ends. He notes that Cas is gazing at him with a blend of solemnity, gratitude, and affection. “What?” Dean prompts him.

“I meant it, you know,” Cas declares.

“What?”

His eyes rove to Dean’s as he says, “I love you.”

“Yeah. I know.” Cas frowns, and Dean curses his ineptitude with words. “I mean. Uh.” He averts his eyes, unable to admit it with those intense blue orbs on him. He stalls for time by clearing his throat then blurts out,“I love you, too.”

Cas’s lips stretch into a grin, one almost as prominent as a normal person’s. The radiance quickly disappears, however. “Are you all right? You were with Alastair for almost two weeks.”

Dean scratches the top of his head. “Uh. I dunno.” Cas looks crushed, and Dean knows what he’s thinking. “No. Um. Alastair didn’t do _that_ to me.”

Cas’s shoulders sag in relief. “Thank God,” he breathes. “What did he do to you? If I may ask?” Cas covers Dean’s hand with his own, and Dean draws strength from the contact.

“Uh. Yeah. Like I said. I helped him hurt people.” Dean chokes on an unexpected sob. “I was so damn weak, Cas, doing what he told me to do.”

“You are not weak,” Cas assures him.

“But I am! I shoulda been able to resist, but I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you incapable of resisting?” If Cas were anyone else, Dean would believe the question to be an accusation, but Cas sounds gentle and concerned.

“I dunno. Because I’m weak.”

“Be more specific.” Again, Cas speaks words that would trigger him if they came from someone else.

“Uh. At first I was just hungry, hadn’t fed in forever. He also locked me in this closet, where it was always dark.—”

“That’s awful, Dean,” Cas commiserates. “You were not weak.”

“Yeah, but then he let me out, and I didn’t even try to escape.”

Cas massages Dean’s knuckles with a thumb. “Why not?” he inquires softly.

“He threatened you and Sammy. I had to keep y’all safe. Well, look how good that turned out,” Dean scoffs. Fuck, he can’t believe he’s actually talking about this stuff, but he knows Cas understands, and maybe that’s why it's all coming out.

“I think it actually turned out rather well.” Dean snorts. “I am serious. Ruby and Azazel have been eliminated. We have captured Alastair. And you are here with me. Safe.” Cas’s voice cracks on the last word, and it tugs on Dean’s heart.

Dean mirrors Cas’s smile. “Yeah. And you’re with me.”

Cas leans in, his lips poised above Dean’s chin when he whispers, “Yes.” His lips trace Dean’s jawline upward to Dean’s lips, where they rest. The touch is tender and delicate. It communicates more than words ever could, ideas of _love_ and _mine_ and _precious_.

Dean returns the sentiment with his own lips, their saliva mixing. Cas tastes so . . . well, like Cas, and Dean can’t get enough.

He realizes he’s one lucky son of a bitch.

A whine emanates from the back of Dean’s throat when Cas pulls away. Cas yawns and asks, “Shall we go to bed?”

Dean has all sorts of delectable ideas for bed, but they can wait for another time. Cas needs sleep, and so does Dean. Lord knows he barely slept during his time with Alastair. Even when Alastair had allowed him more freedom, Dean had stayed awake as much as he could, wary of everyone around him.

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles.

There’s no question about it this time; they will be sharing the twin bed. For some damn reason, Dean’s the little spoon _again_ , but he doesn’t mind. He could spend an eternity in Cas’s warm, protective embrace.

 _Safe_.

That’s how Dean feels in Cas’s arms. In every sense of the word.

Nothing’s perfect. He retains deep scars, as does Cas, and they’ll never fully heal. But he and Cas are survivors, and they can cope, maybe even flourish, as long as they have each other.

And that is beyond perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so excited to have Sam and Jo bust into the warehouse, you have no idea, lol. I'm afraid the part where Sam throws the sword might be too unrealistic, but hey, I think I've seen stuff like that happen in the show, so I decided to keep it.
> 
> I'm not sure how many more chapters there will be, but we're nearing the end here. I do know there will be two more chapters minimum.
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading, and feedback is welcome!


	20. Take Me Into Your Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for torture and mention of past rape. This chapter also contains sexual content.
> 
> The title of the chapter comes from this [Trentemoller song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0XwOjSpdbc).
> 
> Lastly, I have a [tumblr](http://angelofthemoor.tumblr.com/) now, if you feel like following me. I don't use it much right now, but I might sometime. You can contact me via the tumblr as well.

Castiel still cannot fathom their triumph over Alastair. Four against two, and he had been sure they would lose. Alastair had cut into his skin, and he had resigned himself to his fate when Sam and Jo had appeared. Humans, yet they had defeated Ruby. They had provided Dean and Castiel with the impetus needed to fight back.

Bright sunlight filters through the blinds, and Castiel closes his eyes against it. He and Dean barely fit together on the twin bed, even lying on their sides, but Castiel wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Dean fills his arms, and Castiel savors the sensation. He has Dean back. His Dean.

Castiel had never believed he could be so content, brimming over with lightness and love.

He cracks his eyes open and stares at the window wistfully. Sometimes he misses the sun, especially now, the way it warmly caresses one’s skin. In his youth, he had enjoyed the outdoors, basking in sunny days with a book or spending time alone with his thoughts, away from his distant family and their associates, all of whom had disparaged his reticence and awkwardness.

Dean might tease him for those qualities, but for some inexplicable reason, he seems to like them. His green eyes always crinkle with affection when he mentions something awkward Castiel did.

Castiel smiles against Dean’s neck and pulls him closer, wishing he could take Dean into his skin. He smooths a hand through Dean’s hair.

Dean stirs in his sleep and mumbles, “Am I a dog?”

Castiel’s hand freezes. “What?”

Dean shifts in his arms to face him and answers, “Nothin’.” Castiel pecks first one eyelid then the other, and Dean chuckles. Dean grins as he briefly presses his lips to Castiel’s nose. His lips slide downward to Castiel’s, where they plant themselves with insistence. Castiel mewls as his lips part to admit Dean inside. Their tongues battle, teeth clacking.

“Mmm. That was nice,” Castiel murmurs when they pull back for breath.

“Sure was,” Dean concurs. His stomach grumbles, and Castiel’s echoes the sound.

“I think we are hungry,” Castiel observes. He rolls away from Dean and perches on the edge of the bed. “I suppose we should rectify that.”

“Nothin’ like a healthy dose of blood for breakfast,” Dean comments sarcastically.

Castiel stands up, and Dean follows. “Would you prepare it for us?” Castiel asks. “I am going to check on Alastair.”

Dean’s face darkens, but “okay” is all he says. If Castiel calculated correctly, Alastair should still be unconscious, but he does not want Alastair waking up anytime soon. A part of himself thrills at the idea of punishing Alastair, but he is not ready to begin, not yet.

In the basement, Castiel finds that Alastair is indeed still unawake. He mixes another draught of the sleeping serum and injects it into Alastair’s bloodstream.

Upstairs, Dean has ensconced himself in front of the morning’s episode of _The Price is Right_ , a half-empty glass in one hand, a full one in the other. He silently passes over the full cup, his eyes glued to that strange yodeling game. Everyone moans in disappointment when the contestant loses.

Castiel isn’t much interested in the show, so he studies Dean’s profile as he drains his glass. The beautiful hazel-green of his eye, the scars adorning his cheek, the freckles. The askew collar of his blue flannel shirt, the delectable neck rising above it. The corner of that delicious mouth, the strong muscles of his arms.

When the episode ends, Dean places his glass on the table and turns to Castiel. “Stop starin’. It’s creepy.”

“I cannot help it,” Castiel replies.

“Excuses, excuses.”

Castiel clasps Dean’s wrist, brushing an index finger over the pressure point. It flutters underneath his touch. “I am in awe of you, Dean Winchester.”

“Me?” Dean scoffs.

“Yes. You.” Castiel leans in and traps Dean’s bottom lip between his own lips, sucking it, running his tongue over it. Dean lifts his head a fraction of an inch and plants his lips firmly on Castiel’s, tongue delving into Castiel’s mouth. Flights of ecstasy accompany the sensation of Dean exploring his mouth. With one hand, he cups the jeans over Dean’s balls, and Dean’s breath hitches. Castiel’s hands fumble with Dean’s jeans, lips maintaining contact with Dean’s all the while. Dean allows him to slip off the pants, and Castiel snatches at the boxers next. When Dean’s bottom half is bare, Castiel noses at his cock and laps a tongue over it experimentally.

“What’re you up to?” Dean murmurs.

Castiel glances up through his eyelashes. “Consider this a welcome home gift.” He wraps his lips around Dean’s dick, laving it with his tongue.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Dean hisses, throwing his head back. Castiel starts with the tip, gradually drawing Dean deeper, tasting Dean’s precum as it mixes with his own spit. “Fuck, yeah, Cas,” Dean mumbles. He can feel Dean holding back as he fucks Castiel’s mouth gently. Castiel slides his lips off with an obscene pop, and Dean groans, “Why’d ya stop?”

“You can go harder,” Castiel informs him. “I can take it.”

Dean’s eyes widen. Once he recovers from his surprise, he leers at Castiel and declares, “I’m gonna give it to you all right.”

“Give it to me.” He eyes Dean’s penis, engorged with arousal, and shoves his mouth back onto it. Dean takes him at his word, frantically thrusting into Castiel’s mouth. He sets a punishing pace, and Castiel feels Dean’s dick tickling the back of his throat. It has been a while since Castiel has done this, but he did perfect the art over decades with Benny, and, just as he suspected, his skill has not waned. Castiel grows hard at the sound of Dean’s cock slapping into his mouth, the whimpers slipping through Dean’s lips.

“Cas,” Dean whines, “Cas, I’m gonna, Cas—Fuck!” Dean spills into him with the last syllable, and Castiel swallows the ejaculate.

“Cas, Cas, Cas,” Dean whispers, threading a hand through Castiel’s hair. Castiel pries his lips off of Dean’s dick and looks up at his lover. His love. “You’re so pretty with my cum all over your mouth,” he says.

Castiel blinks up at him. “Am I?”

“Very.” Dean smashes his lips against Castiel’s, soaking up the cum with his tongue. He palms Castiel’s penis and mutters, “Your turn.” Castiel helps Dean pull down his black slacks and his boxers, which pool at his ankles. Dean bends down, and his lips linger above Castiel’s dick as he says, “Now. _You_ should give it to _me._ ”

Castiel holds back a little, remembering Dean’s struggle last time he’d come in Dean’s mouth. But as he grinds into Dean’s mouth, again and again, and yet again, he loses control. “Dean,” he breathes, and his hips stutter as cum pours into Dean’s mouth. Castiel collapses against the couch with a sigh, and Dean pulls his lips off of Castiel, laughing as he swipes a hand over the cum splashed over his mouth.

“I fuckin’ love you, Cas,” he asserts vehemently.

“I love you, too, Dean,” Castiel says as he pulls Dean against his side and closes his eyes, resting.

xxxxxxxxxx

Toward evening, Castiel knows they can no longer delay the inevitable. Dean and he have spent the day lounging and cuddling, but that cannot last forever. Alastair will be awake soon, and if he and Dean are truly going to exact revenge on Alastair before killing him, they should begin. After drinking their servings of blood, they venture down to the basement, both with swords in hand. Alastair’s eyes are already open, and they follow Castiel and Dean, their expression unreadable. Dean rips the duct tape off his mouth and says, “I wanna hear ’em scream.” Alastair laughs. Dean slaps him, and Alastair chuckles again. Dean raises his sword, but Castiel shoves him out of the way.

“Let me go first,” Castiel demands. He recalls Dean’s vicious treatment of Bela. He does not want to see Dean rise to that level again, for Dean will regret it. If someone must do so, that should be Castiel. Lord knows he has a taste for cruelty, which now beats against his insides, eager to be released. Dean had helped Alastair torture people, but that does not mean the actions were in his nature. He does not possess the same taint Castiel carries within himself.

“Okay,” Dean mumbles. He moves to the side, and Castiel rolls up the bottom of Alastair’s shirt, revealing a pasty torso. He slices diagonally over the flesh, from left shoulder to right hip, and blood bubbles up. Alastair merely laughs. Castiel mirrors the cut, forming an x across Alastair’s skin. Alastair chortles again.

Dean punches Alastair in the jaw. “Stop laughing, goddammit!” he shouts. Blood trickles from the corner of Alastair’s mouth, and he gazes back at Dean balefully. He giggles, and Dean brandishes his blade. “I’ll give you somethin’ to laugh about,” he mutters as he aims for Alastair’s chest. His slashes resemble a spiraling pattern Castiel saw in the newspaper, and oh, God, that new method had been _Dean_.

Alastair forced Dean, Castiel tells himself. It could not have originated from Dean; his core is righteous. But Dean continues to carve up Alastair with precision, dispassion, even grim joy, and Castiel gapes at him.

Dean turns to face Castiel, sword dyed almost completely red. A twinge of something, perhaps sorrow, flickers through his eyes. “I’m not so good, y’know,” he states. “I’m rotten through and through. I shoulda told ya, but I couldn’t . . . ” His eyes fill with tears. “I _liked_ it. The torture. I’m a fuckin’ psycho, huh?” Dean laughs without mirth. He gestures at Alastair with his sword. “Like him.”

Dean’s time with Alastair had given him a taste for torture, just as Castiel’s time with the Miltons had done for Castiel. Well, they can work with it. He will lead Dean through this. He approaches Dean, curls a hand around the wrist holding the sword, and looks him in the eye. “No,” Castiel answers. “I liked it, too. With the Miltons. If you are a psychopath, then so am I.” Dean gives Castiel a skeptical look. “It does not mean that we have to be like him.” He nods at Alastair. “I cannot suppress it, but that does not mean I have to use it on innocent people. I—we—can pick and choose whoever is appropriate.”

“Oh, get off your high horse!” Alastair yells.

Castiel ignores him. “I find that I must occasionally indulge. This is how, Dean. This is how we can let it out.” He spins around and slashes at Alastair’s throat. Blood streams out. Alastair howls and attempts to clutch at his neck, but his wrists strain against the ropes ineffectually.

Dean traces his own line on Alastair’s neck, just above Castiel’s. Castiel smiles at Alastair’s scream. No doubt this is painful for him, but it pales in comparison to what his nest did to Castiel. To Dean, too. Maybe Dean’s bloodlust is disconcerting, but Castiel cannot judge, for he possesses the quality as well.

He realizes that sharing this with Dean excites him.

Castiel grins as he scrapes skin skin from Alastair’s forearm. Dean follows suit with the other arm. Alastair shrieks as the skin peels away. Castiel’s grin grows wider.

Castiel halts his progress when he hears something. Dean continues, however. Castiel holds up a hand and urges him to stop.

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“I think someone is here.” Footsteps pause at the top of the basement stairs, and Castiel smells vampire. By the door, he and Dean spot Gordon and Meg. The duo leaps down, swords at the ready. Castiel parries Meg’s strike, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean sparring with Gordon. But Meg is quick and skillful, and Castiel must stay focused on her. Finally, Castiel pins Meg in a corner, but he glances away at the sound of Dean cheering. At Dean’s feet lies the body of Gordon and his severed head. Meg lunges at Castiel, and Castiel whips around in time to counter the movement. He knocks the sword out of her hand, and it slides along the floor until it lands near Dean. Castiel holds his blade to Meg’s neck, prepared to strike, but she screeches, “Wait!”

Castiel’s hand freezes mid-motion. “What is it?” he inquires.

“Please don’t kill me,” she implores.

He stares, stunned at Meg’s plea. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Please.”

He tightens his grip on the sword and remains resolute. “You are a danger to society. I cannot let you leave this room.”

“Please, I can be good,” she insists.

“Why should I believe you?”

“I can. Please.” Something in her dark brown eyes makes him hesitate. A tiny ounce of sincerity. He deliberates over how to respond. Does he have a right to condemn Meg? No. She may delight in torture, but so does Castiel. The only difference is in how they choose their targets. Perhaps she deserves a chance.

“Fuckin’ traitorous coward!” Alastair spits at her.

She glares at him. “Fuck off!”

“This is how you behave at the first sign of trouble? You fuckin’ bitch!”

“You ungrateful _asshole_ ,” Meg fumes. “Gordon and I came to get you, and this is the thanks we get?”

“Why the hell should I be grateful? You idiots failed!”

“Fuck you!” She looks back at Castiel. “Please?”

He nods at the door. “All right. Go.”

“What the hell, Cas!” Dean hollers.

“Go,” Castiel reiterates. “Before I change my mind.”

“Thank you,” Meg says before dashing up the stairs.

“What’d you do that for?” Dean gripes once Meg is gone.

“I do not know. I believed her,” Castiel admits.

“She’s a fuckin’ liar,” Dean opines.

“Let us hope not.” He places the point of his blade on Alastair’s wrist. “Shall we?”

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean and Cas lock lips, bodies pressed against each other. “Do I have to watch this?” Alastair grumbles.

Dean reluctantly pries his lips from Cas’s and tells Alastair, “Shut your piehole.”

“You two are disgusting.”

“Not as disgusting as you.”

Cas lops a finger off of Alastair’s left hand, and Alastair yowls. “Insane bastard!”

Cas’s smile is chilling. “You did so much worse.”

“I didn’t cut off anyone’s fingers!”

“You _raped_ him!” Dean shouts through clenched teeth.

Alastair leers at Castiel. “He enjoyed it.” Cas blanches.

Dean slices off the top of Alastair’s right-hand pinky. “You’re an asshole.”

“What? It’s true.” Alastair’s eyes rake over Cas. “Tell him, Cas. Tell him how hard you came.” Cas staggers backward, colliding with the wall. His eyes glisten, and his limbs tremble.

Dean drags his sword from the corner of Alastair’s mouth to his ear. “It’s fuckin’ biology, dickwad!” He traces the sword down to Alastair’s chin.

“Do that all you want. Doesn’t change the facts. I gave him the best orgasms of his life.”

“You son of a bitch!” Cas shrieks, rushing at Alastair with his sword raised. Tears course down his cheeks, but his eyes are dark and determined. He’s going to tear Alastair apart, and Dean’s all for that, but Alastair will taunt him more all the while, dredging up horrendous wounds. And _that_ Dean is not okay with. He fills a syringe with the sleeping serum and injects Alastair, who instantly lapses into unconsciousness.

“Why did you do that?” Cas queries.

“You’d reached your limit.”

“What? No. I am fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re hyperventilating,” Dean points out.

“Oh.” Cas attempts to stabilize his breathing, but he can't. Dean grabs Cas’s hand and guides him upstairs, locking the door behind them. They sink into the couch, and Dean soothes Cas, massaging his temples. Cas pillows his head on Dean’s chest, and Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders. Gradually, Cas relaxes, and Dean kisses his brow.

Dean’s phone disrupts the tranquil mood. He glances at the phone and groans. “It’s freakin’ Jo,” he mumbles.

“Answer it,” Cas urges.

 _Click_. Dean puts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Dean?” Jo replies.

“Yeah. What’s up?”

“Everyone at the precinct’s talkin’ about how they miss you. And uh, I kinda told them you’d meet us at the Roadhouse tonight?”

“What?”

“Please, Dean. C’mon. They haven’t seen you in _forever_.”

“Now’s not a good time, Jo.”

“Pleeeeeease?”

“Can I bring Cas?”

“Of course.”

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

“You are meeting with your colleagues tonight,” Cas observes when Dean hangs up.

“Who told you it was okay to eavesdrop?”

“I could not help overhearing the conversation.”

“Whatever. Yeah. Wanna come?”

“I should not.”

Dean furrows his brow. “What? Why not?”

“Someone needs to stay and guard Alastair.”

“He’s tied up and locked in the basement, for chrissake. He’s not goin’ anywhere.”

“Meg is still out there,” Cas notes.

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Dean retorts. Cas stares at him mutely. “Seriously, Cas, what the hell were you thinkin’?” Cas shrugs and cringes a little. Dean places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. Will you come? Please?”

“It is not a wise idea.”

“C’mon. I want my friends to meet the man I love.”

Cas smiles. “Okay.”

xxxxxxxxxx

As Dean drives himself and Cas to the Roadhouse, he fantasizes about hurting Alastair. An idea occurs to him. “Hey, Cas, why don’t we just burn Alastair’s skin off?”

“That would not work,” Cas answers. Well, there goes that option.

“Why not?”

“Our kind, we are impervious to fire.”

“Damn.” If only he’d been a vampire a year ago. He could’ve barreled into the fire and saved Mom and Dad with nary a scratch.

Dean notices Cas is fidgeting. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Cas replies too quickly. “Why?”

“Dunno. You just seem a little . . . jumpy.”

“Perhaps I should not have come.”

“What? Why?”

Cas picks at a hangnail. “I am not accustomed to socializing with large crowds.”

“You’ll be fine, dude. They’ll love ya.” Cas gives Dean a dubious look, but he doesn’t say anything.

When they stroll into the bar, everyone else is already there, scattered about the establishment. Their heads swivel toward Dean and Cas as they enter.

“Uh. Hey, guys,” Dean utters.

“What’d I tell ya ’bout keepin’ in touch, boy?” Ellen castigates him.

“Sorry. Just been busy, I guess.” She eyes Cas pointedly, and after a minute, Dean says, “Oh, yeah. This is Cas—Castiel. My . . . boyfriend.” Cas nods in confirmation.

“Well!” She holds out a hand to Cas. “Glad to meet ya.”

Cas responds, “I am pleased to meet you as well, Ms.—”

“Please. Call me Ellen.” She shouts halfway across the bar at her daughter. “Jo! Why didn’t ya tell me Dean has a boyfriend!”

Jo flushes. “Mom!”

“C’mon, I’ll introduce ya to everyone else,” Dean tells Cas. He leads Cas by the hand to the nearest booth, where Sam is whispering with Sarah. “Y’know my brother, obviously,” Dean says. “This here is Sarah. She’s the sketch artist down at the precinct. More important, she’s Sam’s girlfriend.” Sarah playfully slaps Dean on the arm.

“Hello,” Cas greets her. “My name is Castiel.”

“Nice to meet you, Castiel,” Sarah says.

Dean drags Cas around, to Gilda and Charlie (who compliments Cas’s Constantine look, much to Cas’s confusion), Chuck, Garth, and Bobby. Finally, they reach the last table. “You already know Jo,” Dean mentions.

“Hey, Cas,” Jo says.

“Hello, Jo,” Cas echoes.

“Victor here’s the boss,” Dean explains.

Cas seems especially nervous around Victor, and he hides his shaking hands in his pockets. Is he afraid Victor will catch on to their vigilante crusade against Alastair? Cas shouldn’t worry about that. “Hello, Victor. I am Castiel.”

“Good to meet you, Castiel.” Victor extends a hand, and Cas accepts it. Victor frowns suspiciously at Cas’s unstable hand. Or does Dean imagine that?

Dean turns to Kevin, who is seated beside Victor. “And this’s Kevin,” Dean announces. “The newest member of our ragtag bunch.”

Cas studies Kevin’s slight frame skeptically. “You are a police officer?”

Kevin looks affronted by Cas’s doubting tone, but he doesn’t comment on it. “No. Station psychologist.”

“I apologize. I did not mean to offend you,” Cas replies.

Kevin relaxes into a smile. “Nah. Don’t worry about it.”

“My name is Castiel.”

Kevin giggles, gesturing at Victor beside him. “So I heard.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Why don’t you guys sit down?” Cas takes a chair next to Kevin, and Dean is about to deposit himself in the chair by Cas when he spots Sam near the bathroom. Sam beckons with a finger, and Dean sighs inwardly. What does he want?

“Be right back,” Dean informs the other four. He traipses over to Sam, who shoves Dean into the bathroom and locks the door behind them. “What the hell, Sam?” Dean complains.

“What’ve you been doin’ for the past two days?” Sam demands.

Seriously? Sam already knows the answer to that. “Stayin’ at Cas’s cabin. Duh.”

“What’d you do with Alastair?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “None of your beeswax.” Sam slams Dean’s back against a sink, and Dean yelps.

“Have you killed him yet?”

“None of your beeswax,” Dean repeats.

“I’m gonna take that as a no. Seriously, Dean. You should just kill him already.”

“Don’t talk about shit you don’t understand.”

“I don’t know what you and Cas have been doin’ with him, and I don’t wanna know. But whatever it is, this quest for revenge—it’s insane, man.”

“Fuck off, Sammy!”

Sam’s face is uncomfortably close to Dean’s. “No, Dean. I will not fuck off.”

“Ya gonna kiss me or what?” Dean gibes. Sam knocks Dean’s head onto the faucet then steps back. “Goddammit! What’s the big idea?” Dean hollers.

“I’m doin’ this ’cause I care, Dean. I don’t know what you let that vampire convince you to do.—”

“Are we talkin’ about _Cas_ here?!” Sam nods. “Stop buttin’ into shit you don’t understand, Sammy!” Of course Sam doesn't understand. The darkness isn’t in him, and Dean would prefer to keep it that way. “It just so happens that our ‘revenge quest,’ or whatever you wanna call it, was _my_ idea.” Sam gapes at him. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Stop it, Dean. You know it started with that vampire. I’m worried you’re becoming someone you don’t want to be.”

Dean is already someone he doesn’t want to be. But Alastair did that, not Cas. “Me ’n Cas are fine.”

“He’s warped you, Dean.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sammy! You don’t get to talk shit about someone I love!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “Yeah, I said it.” Dean turns around to spit into the sink then looks back at Sam. “And I meant it.”

“Sorry, Dean. I just—” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “I’m worried about you.”

“Thanks, Sammy, but don’t be.” He offers Sam a feeble smile. “Let’s go back out there, huh?”

“Okay.”

Dean doesn’t understand it. When Sam had discovered Dean’s relationship with Cas, he had seemed supportive of it. Reluctantly so, but still. He’d saved Cas in the warehouse. So why is Sam suddenly anti-Cas again?

Dean assumes a seat between Cas and Jo, and Cas grins at him. He pecks Cas on the lips and mumbles, “Hey, babe.”

Cas startles at Dean’s use of the word “babe,” but a glow of happiness settles over his features. “Hello, Dean.”

“Oh, my God, tone down the PDA,” Jo groans.

“No, thanks,” Dean replies. He and Cas lean into each other, lips meeting halfway.

“Ugh, get a room,” Jo gripes when they pull apart. Victor’s eyes bug at the display. Understandable reaction, Dean supposes. He used to never care for kissing in public, even with Lisa. Until now, when he can’t get enough of Cas, public or not.

Underneath the table, Cas clasps Dean’s hand. They exchange smiles, and Kevin inserts, “You two are kinda cute together.”

Dean’s ears heat up. Seriously, of all things, Dean had never wanted to be part of a nauseatingly cute couple. Guess he can’t help it with Cas.

“Thank you, Kevin,” Cas responds sincerely.

“So, Dean,” Victor begins. “You’ve been on leave for quite a while. I know I put you on indefinite leave, but it’d be nice to have a return date. We miss you down at the station. Especially your insights into the serial killer.”

Dean exchanges a meaningful look with Jo. They both know that the serial killer case is closed, but they cannot share that information with Victor. “I dunno,” Dean tells Victor. He might not even be returning to the police force. After all, the need to work in the daytime would reveal his secret, and possibly Cas’s. Should he tell Victor he might quit? That would open a can of worms, and the last thing Dean wants right now is to be interrogated by Victor.

“Just think about it,” Victor urges. “It’d be good to have you back.”

“Yeah, okay.”

xxxxxxxxxx

“Your friends are nice,” Castiel concludes when he and Dean scramble into the Impala a little after midnight. He and Dean had drunk quite a bit of alcohol, and the others had been worried about them. Jo had argued that she should drive them home, but Castiel and Dean had won out. The others warily let them leave, and Dean mentioned that they’d never have gotten away with doing that if Victor was still around. Castiel does not support drunk driving, of course, but alcohol has no effect on vampires, though they may experience a tingling warmth. Dean complained about never being able to get drunk again, but Castiel prefers the status quo. The notion of getting drunk horrifies him, not least because his one experience had led to him waking up as a vampire.

“Told ya,” Dean replies as he switches on the ignition. “They like you. I can tell.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yeah. Even Victor, and it usually takes him forever to warm up to someone.” He pauses. “Also, Kevin said he thinks you’re good for me.”

“When did this happen?” Castiel splutters.

“When you were chatting with Sam and Sarah.” Dean’s countenance clouds over, but it resumes its normal expression an instant later.

“Oh.” Castiel does not know which of Dean’s colleagues he likes best; they are all so different, yet they effortlessly complement each other. Jo, of course, he knows the best. Victor might seem standoffish, but he exudes an air of competence and confidence. Charlie is quirky, and she and Gilda seem happy together. Sarah and Sam are a wonderful couple, Sarah’s intellectualism rendering her a great match for Sam. Bobby’s gruff exterior conceals a giant heart. Garth is good-hearted, too, and gentle. Chuck is a scrappy ball of nerves yet full of interesting ideas. And Kevin might just be the smartest person Castiel has ever met.

“Whoa, you got all that from just a few hours?” Dean marvels when Castiel finishes his list.

“All I did was observe everyone,” Castiel explains.

“Whatever. You woulda made a good cop.”

“Thank you.” Castiel likes Ellen also, he decides. She is a tough woman, but a maternal air clings to her.

After they stumble into the cabin, Castiel grips Dean’s shoulders and shoves him against the wall, pressing insistent lips onto Dean’s.

“What the hell?” Dean mumbles when his mouth is free.

“I want to fuck you, Dean.” Yes, Castiel wishes to do that now, more than anything. This closeness to Dean, that Dean would even want Castiel to meet his friends . . . Castiel traces one of Dean’s facial scars with his index finger. “May I?”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, pupils dilating. He throws his head back, his neck an offering. “Fuck me, Cas,” he breathes.

This will be more than fucking, Castiel decides. He will worship his lover. His love. Castiel trails lips across Dean’s neck, sucking a hickey at his clavicle.

“Take my blood, Cas,” Dean suggests.

Castiel’s eyes meet his. “Are you sure?” He has educated Dean about the intimacy of such a gesture. Plus, as he well knows, when someone drinks your blood, it drains you.

“Yeah, Cas. C’mon.”

“All right.” Castiel bites into Dean’s succulent neck and sips droplets of blood. Dean gasps at the incision, but soon he seems dissatisfied.

“Take it,” Dean reiterates. “I want to feel you gorging—oh!” It is easy to comply with Dean’s desires when they so closely align with his own. He rips open a larger hole in Dean’s neck and guzzles the blood as it spills out. Dean closes his eyes, moaning wantonly. Castiel feels Dean’s hard penis through his jeans as he ruts against Castiel’s leg. Soon, Castiel feels an electric charge building inside him, along with an almost painful arousal. The sweetness of Dean’s blood heightens the sensation, and eventually it grows to be too much. Castiel wants more, always more, until he drowns himself in it, but if he loses himself in it, he’s not sure he’ll ever come back. He extracts his teeth from Dean’s neck and tumbles to the floor with him, pinning Dean’s wrists to the ground with his hands and bracketing Dean’s thighs with his knees. He licks the residual blood off of Dean’s neck and plants a firm kiss on his lips.

“Mmm. Unheimlich,” Dean murmurs. Castiel smiles at the memory.

“These. Off,” Castiel demands as he divests Dean of his clothes.

“Mmm. Yeah.” Dean tugs at Castiel’s trenchcoat. “This off, too.”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow. “Just this?” he teases.

“All of your damn clothes!”

“Hmm. All right.”

Dean helps him strip, and their lips return to each other, chests pressing together. But Castiel wants more, _needs_ more. More than merely touch. He needs their skin to meld, for him and Dean to bleed into each other.

“Inside you, Dean,” Castiel whispers as he nibbles at Dean’s ear. “I need to be inside you.”

“Then c’mon.”

Castiel realizes that there is no lubricant nearby, but he does not want to break contact with Dean’s skin. “I am afraid that the lubricant is in the basement, if I even have any,” Castiel confesses.

“Fuck,” Dean groans. He flips onto his stomach and orders, “Gimme your fingers.”

“What?”

“Gimme your fingers, goddammit!” Castiel swipes his hand from Dean’s neck to his lips. Dean takes Castiel’s fingers in one at a time, lathering them until his hand is drenched in spit.

“Are you ready?” Castiel asks.

“Fuck yeah.”

Castiel inserts one finger tentatively, and Dean hisses. “Are you all right?” Castiel inquires.

“Yeah. Just burns a little. Keep goin’.”

A few minutes later, Castiel adds another finger. He prods inside Dean, scissoring his fingers, noting the sharp intake of breath that indicates he has hit Dean’s prostate. He adds a third finger, then a fourth, until Dean pleads for Cas to fuck him already.

“Suck,” Castiel rumbles, sticking his fingers into Dean’s mouth. More blood rushes to his penis at the thought of Dean tasting his own ass.

Castiel lathers his cock with the spit and positions himself. “Ready?”

“Get on with it.”

Castiel inserts the tip of his dick, and Dean gasps at the burn. Castiel massages Dean's ass as he pushes in and out gently, not yet daring to go all the way. Gradually, he deepens his thrusts until Dean exclaims, “Give it to me already!”

Dean shivers as Castiel licks into Dean’s ear. “I am going to pound into you, Dean,” he whispers. “I am going to fuck you senseless.”

“God, yes!”

He sheaths himself fully inside Dean, and he feels Dean’s body stiffen. “Just relax,” Castiel advises him. Castiel’s hips move frantically, basking in the heat of Dean’s ass, the warmth seeping into Castiel. Their grunts and whimpers echo around them. Whiteness builds behind Castiel’s eyes “Dean, I’m going to—”

“Yeah, Cas. Come for me, baby.”

With a rough thrust, Castiel plunges all the way, and his orgasm wrings through him. Castiel knows he has hit Dean’s prostate by his whine, and soon he’s coming with Castiel, their ejaculate dripping onto the floor and mixing together, voices mingling as they murmur each other’s names. Castiel collapses onto Dean’s back.

“Damn, I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

“Neither have I,” Castiel realizes.

“I’ve never come like that. Without being touched.”

“We should clean up.”

“It can wait.”

“Mmm.”

They lay on the floor, Castiel covering Dean’s body with his, and fall into a pleasant post-coital stupor.

xxxxxxxxxx

Eventually, Castiel remembers that he should give Alastair another dose of the sleeping serum. He and Dean stand up reluctantly, clean themselves and the floor with paper towels, and don their clothes. They traipse to the basement door, which Castiel discovers is slightly ajar. Frowning, he descends the stairs, eyes traveling to the table.

Alastair is gone, the rope’s knots untied.

“Cas, what is it?—Holy shit!” Dean exclaims as he jogs down the stairs. “How the fuck did he get out?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the smut wasn't godawful. I find smut to be one of the most challenging things to write.
> 
> The story is nearing its end, yet I'm still not sure how many more chapters there will be. A note about updates: I may be able to update this fic by Friday evening, if I can finish the next chapter by then. If I do not post the next chapter by then, however, it will probably be at least two weeks (from today) until I can update again. I hate to leave the fic at this spot for so long, but real life beckons.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Comments, kudos, etc., are very welcome and much appreciated!


	21. An Act of Kindness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a reference to past dubcon involving incest.
> 
> So . . . I'm really nervous about this chapter. I hope it's not a disappointment.
> 
> Also, I have a [tumblr](http://angelofthemoor.tumblr.com/%22) now. I don't use it much right at the moment, but I plan on eventually doing so for updates and such. It depends on when I get over my nervousness about tumblr. Anyway, if you're interested, please follow me, and I'll follow you back!

“Where do you think he went?” Dean asks Cas.

“I don’t know,” Cas answers. He pauses as if considering something. “But I believe he is in the cabin. I can still smell him.”

“Maybe it’s a residual scent,” Dean hypothesizes.

Cas considers the theory for a minute then shakes his head. “No, I do not think so.”

“Hello, boys,” a voice intones from the stairs. Dean and Cas whip around to find none other than Alastair towering over them. “I would have made my presence known earlier, but I did so enjoy watching you two fuck like rabbits.”

Cas reddens, and Dean glares at Alastair. “Pervert,” Dean hisses.

Alastair takes one step down. “It would appear that you’re quite the kinky bastards,” he taunts. He moves to the second step. “It was _quite_ the spectacle.” Alastair grips his crotch as his feet hit the final step. “Turned me on like nobody’s business.” He briefly rubs at where his slacks cover his dick before raising a sword with the other hand. _My sword_ , Dean realizes.

Cas retrieves his sword from beside the table and approaches Alastair, pointing it at him. “Do not come any closer,” Cas warns.

“Oh, _Castiel_ ,” Alastair croons. “I thought you would have learned by now. I’ll always be the one to fuck you over.” Cas pales, his eyes filling with dread. With his blade, Alastair slaps the sword out of Cas’s hand as he hops off the last step. Before Dean can pick up the sword, Alastair kicks it across the room. Dean rushes for it, but Alastair chases after Cas until Cas’s legs collide with the table. With both hands, Alastair yanks at tufts of Cas’s hair and bangs his head against the table. Unconscious, Cas collapses to the floor. Alastair turns to Dean, who brandishes the sword. He swings his sword toward Dean, but Dean blocks the motion. They swing, parry, swing, parry, so rapidly that Dean has difficulty following the action. It’s a miracle he still somehow has his sword. Scratch that—knock on wood, dammit.

Laughing, Alastair scrapes at the skin over Dean’s clavicle. “And I had such high hopes for you,” he laments.

Dean shrugs. “Life’s a bitch, huh?” he retorts. If he’s goin’ down, it’ll be with his head held high.

Clacking heels approach, and the smell of a new vampire hits Dean’s nose. He looks up and sees Meg standing at the top of the steps, sword in hand, her expression unreadable. Figures she’d be behind this. Why had Cas trusted the bitch?

Alastair leers up at her. “Meg, sweetheart,” he hums. “Care to join me?” Meg is silent, and Alastair adds, “Let’s take care of these bastards, huh?”

Holy shit. Dean and Cas are royally fucked.

But Meg hesitates. She trots down the steps and lifts her sword—but aims it at Alastair. “Let him go,” she demands. Dean gawks at her, and Alastair looks genuinely flabbergasted.

“Meg, sweetheart—” he begins.

“Don’t you _sweetheart_ me!”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, darling. You should put that down before you do something you’ll regret.”

Meg cackles, the sound desperate. “Oh, I’ve already done so much more than that.”

Alastair narrows his eyes at her. “I can forgive you for what you’ve done thus far, but if you continue with this charade—”

“Let. Him. Go,” she repeats, her tone resolute.

Dean hears Cas stirring behind him. Cas crawls to the sword Dean dropped and picks it up. “What happened?” Cas inquires. He glances up at everyone else. “What’s going on?”

“Alastair was just about to let Dean go,” Meg replies. She raises an eyebrow at Alastair. “Weren’t you?”

“We’ll discuss this later,” he growls at Meg.

Cas staggers to his feet, sword poised. “Oh, I think not.”

And just like that, Cas neatly slices through Alastair’s throat. Alastair’s head flops to the ground, body following soon after.

“What’d you do that for?” Dean asks Cas. Seriously. They hadn’t yet finished punishing the bastard.

“It had to be done,” Cas declares. “We could not risk him escaping again, not if we wish to keep the town safe.”

“How’d he get out, anyway?” Dean turns to Meg. “If it wasn’t you?”

“Nope,” Meg says.

Cas examines the ropes. “It appears that he tore open the knots with his teeth.”

“Are you serious?”

“Come see.”

Indeed, the ropes are frayed with bite marks. Yikes, that must’ve hurt. “Shoulda gagged him before we left, huh?”

“Yes.”

Dean eyes Meg. “How ’bout we gank her next?”

Meg crosses her arms over her chest and scowls at Dean. “What the hell? I just stood up for you!”

“Yeah.” Dean’s confused about that. “Why?”

“It’s certainly not anything _you_ did.” Her eyes rove to Cas. “I did it because of you.”

“Me?” Cas marvels.

“Yes. You.” Meg’s smile softens her features. Dean had never thought he’d witness such a thing.

xxxxxxxxxx

“I don’t understand,” Castiel says.

“I came here to ask for your help.”

Castiel studies her. “Why?”

“I don’t know what to do, and you—you were kind to me.” Self-consciously, she wipes away a stray tear. “When you shouldn’t have been. After all the shit I did to you.” She inches toward Castiel.

“Hold it!” Dean shrieks. “Don’t touch him.”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel assures him.

“Do you know what it means?” Meg chokes out. “When someone’s kind to you? How it feels, when _no one_ has ever been kind to you? _No one_ , for almost one hundred and fifty years?” She wavers on her feet, and Castiel catches her. He cradles her head on his shoulder and strokes her hair as he would a child’s. Dean looks askance at him, and Castiel meets his eyes, hoping to calm him. Dean must see something soothing there, for he relaxes. He sits down on the third step, and Castiel sinks to the floor with Meg.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Castiel suggests gently.

Meg sniffles and pulls back. “Like you care.”

He squeezes her hand. “I do.”

Meg swipes at the snot under her nose and rolls her eyes. “God, this is so embarrassing,” she huffs. “But what’ve I got to lose, right?” She laughs harshly. “Who’d’ve ever thought I’d end up like this? Spilling my guts to a coupla goody-goody vampires?” She releases a dejected guffaw. “Do you really wanna hear this?” she inquires, skepticism coloring her voice.

“No,” Dean mumbles while Castiel simultaneously replies, “Yes.” He glowers at Dean and repeats, “Yes.”

Meg shrugs. “Whatever. Here goes.

“I was born in New York City in 1852. My mom died giving birth to me.” A shadow passes over her features. “At least, that’s what dear old Dad always said. I worshiped the damn bastard, y’know? He gave me everything I ever wanted. He had all these books in his library, books about the occult and magic and shit. He used to teach me out of them, quiz me. Because I had to grow up to ‘make him proud,’” Meg utters the last sentence with bitterness.

“But he never—he never let me have any friends.” A flicker of something girlish flickers through her eyes. “Any time I’d play with another kid for too long, Dad’d always make us move. But there was this one girl—Violet. For some damn reason, she was determined to stay friends. She discovered our new home, and she’d come over all the time, wanting to take me to church, to ‘save’ me. I tried to warn her away; I told her I was a vile human being. I did horrible things to her—ripped up her dolls, gave her a black eye, even sliced her wrist with a knife.” Her tone turns disbelieving. “But none of it scared her away. She’d say that she knew I could be good.” Meg’s eyes strain to contain tears. “But it was all for nothing. When Dad found out how persistent she was, he slaughtered them. Her and her parents, her baby brother. Locked me in my room for a month. Literally. He wouldn’t let me out. He gave me a few scraps everyday and a chamberpot. Said it was for my own good, that I was too special to be spending time with the likes of her. I was debasing myself by associating with her, and this oughtta teach me my lesson.

“I learned my lesson all right.”

Castiel stares at Meg, horrified. Even Dean looks appalled. “How old were you?” Castiel ventures.

“Twelve.”

“My God.”

Dean clenches one hand into a fist. “Some people just shouldn’t have children,” he mutters.

“Shut up!” Meg snaps. “That’s my dad you’re talkin’ about!”

“But—”

“Maybe he was a shitty father, but at least he loved me!” Meg covers her face with her hands. Castiel understands her ambivalence. He is not fond of Anna and Michael, but they did care for him, after a fashion. He may despise them, but a small part of himself cares about them, too. He wonders what happened to them. Did they really die when the history books claim they did, or are they still out there somewhere, even now?

“And you!” Meg rages at Dean. “You fucking _killed_ him!” She confronts Dean, teeth barred.

“Yeah, and I’d do it again,” Dean hurls.

Meg aims a blow at Dean, but Castiel arrests the movement. “Stop it,” he orders. “Please do not make me regret sparing you.”

Castiel and Meg settle on the floor once again, and Meg murmurs, “Sorry.” Her eyes are fierce. “But he _was_ my dad.”

“I know. And I am sorry. But he was a threat—to Dean and myself, and to society.”

“As am I,” Meg points out.

“Are you?”

Meg shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore. I’m so damn alone.” She scoffs at herself. “God, I sound pathetic.”

“No,” Castiel assures her. “Do you wish to continue?”

“What, with my lame life story?” Castiel nods. “Sure, why not?

“As I said, I learned my lesson. I decided that I would become whatever Dad wanted me to be. It was better for everyone. There wouldn’t be another Violet. Poor, stupid Violet. She should’ve never put her faith in me.

“Y’know, the Civil War was going on, and all Dad cared about was molding me into his perfect little daughter? Once, I brought up what was happening in the city during the Draft Riots, ’cause I’d heard people gossiping about them. He slapped me and told me never to mention the outside world. None of it meant anything. Only me and him mattered.”

Meg toys with the ends of her hair. “Anyway. It was just him and me for a while. I don’t know what he did for a living, exactly, but sometimes he’d come home covered in blood. Always alone, though, until one night.

“I was twenty-five then, dreaming of marriage. I thought anything’d be better than my life. I could never get married, since Dad wouldn’t let me leave the house by myself, but a girl could dream. I guess there was still some part of me that craved what Violet had represented.

“Well, it all fell away that night.

“Dad brought home this man. Fascinating, if a little scary. Introduced him as Alastair. Said he had a gift for us, for me, if Alastair judged me worthy. So I better be on my best behavior.

“Alastair cut into my skin. I screamed, and he clamped my mouth shut. Dad told me I had to endure it in order to prove I was worthy. I watched as Alastair shredded my skin, watched the blood flow from the wounds. There was something thrilling about it. I wanted more, and I told Alastair not to stop. I remember his smile . . . so pleased. It felt good to have someone be proud of me. Dad never had been, not until that moment.

“He told Dad that I’d exceeded his expectations, that we were deserving. He . . . ” Meg closes her eyes tightly. “He kissed me,” she whispers. “I’d never been kissed before. It was . . . well, I liked it. Then his teeth were sinking into me, and I writhed with a pleasure I’d never felt before as we fell to the floor.

“I’m not sure what happened next.” She opens her eyes, clear, almost emotionless eyes. “In the morning, all three of us were on the floor, our clothes scattered around us. I remember Dad and Alastair waking up, kissing each other. Alastair kissing me, and Dad kissing me, too . . . ” Meg might seem calm, but Castiel senses a deeper storm underneath. What must it have felt like, to have your father give you away like that? To be coerced into a threesome with your father and a strange man?

Castiel feels sick. Anna and Michael had taken advantage of him, but this, the unabashed incest . . . Meg’s experience had been much worse.

An unsettling glow descends upon her. “What the hell was there to do but embrace it, right?” She shrugs. “The sex wasn’t half bad while it lasted. When we expanded our operations, we toned it down. Dad left me to Alastair, said we’d earned each other. Alastair always told me I was his star pupil.” She glances at Dean and says, her tone jealous. “That is, until _he_ came along.”

Castiel thinks he understands the situation Meg is referring to. He had seen Dean at work while they punished Alastair. Dean had taken to the task with a chilling natural grace, like a predatory animal. If Dean had been cajoled into developing a taste for it, with Alastair starving him and locking him in a tiny closet, well, Castiel could not blame him. Lord knows he had done similar things with Anna and Michael.

He'd told Dean that if they selected their targets carefully, they could slake the violent instincts they’ve developed.

Perhaps Meg could satisfy herself with such an arrangement?

She continues, “I’d delighted in pain for so long. Mine, when Alastair and I were alone. No aphrodisiac quite like it. Except for inflicting pain on others. To have such power over someone, to produce an effect so absolute on the body of another person. It was some high. As long as I had my blood and pain, I was happy.

“When Alastair brought him home.” She gestures toward Dean. “I could tell Alastair liked him more than me. Even when he was with me, Alastair was thinking about Dean. It left a hole in me, and other things began prickling my consciousness. I didn’t know how to deal with those thoughts, so I ignored them. Just focused on inflicting pain and trying to please Alastair. I wanted to show him that _I_ was his best pupil, not Dean.

“But the more I tried to impress him, the more he favored Dean. _Always_ Dean. Even gave him the first crack at victims, when that was supposed to be for _me_.

“Then one day I realized what Alastair was doing to Dean was frickin’ _sad_. Of course, I didn’t mention that to anyone, especially not Alastair or Dad. I wasn’t about to disappoint them. I mean, what the hell did it have to do with me, anyway? So I forgot about it and carried on.

“Everything was fuckin’ fabulous. I still had fun. I owed both Dad and Alastair for saving me from a mundane life. Nothing would ever change that.

“But the tables turned. Somehow, you guys defeated us. And Alastair. Obviously, Gordon and I had to try to get him back. He was all I’d ever known, and without him, I was—I am—lost.

She looks at Castiel with thoughtful eyes. “I didn’t expect you to listen to me that night. I don’t know why I asked you not to kill me . . . just some stupid instinct, I guess. A pitiful last-ditch effort at survival. I knew you’d slice my head off, and you should have. It’s what I would’ve done. Especially after all the crap that we did to you. That I did to you. I’m the one who lured you into that church. I whittled you down like a piece of wood. What Alastair did with your body, while I watched and laughed . . . ” An irate Dean prepares to stand up and confront Meg. Castiel gives him a discouraging look, and Dean averts his eyes to the ground, sullen.

“Honestly, I thought you were an idiot for even listening to me,” Meg narrates. “I immediately started plotting about how I could take advantage of your weakness. I’d come back when the time was right and get Alastair. Then he’d know my worth and apologize for neglecting me these past couple of weeks. We could build a new nest together; maybe he’d even let me be his equal.” She laughs bitterly. “But when Alastair rebuked me that night, called me a traitor and a coward, and a bitch, . . . I saw the hatred in his eyes. I’d seen him look that way at our victims, even at some of the other vampires when they did something dumb, but never me. _Never_ me.” Meg emphasizes the last two words. “Because he _loved_ me. But when he looked at me then . . . it was like all that love had evaporated. I knew it then. He’d never loved me. It had always been an act. All he cared about was his obedient sweetheart,” she spits. “I thought back to the few times I’d ever gone against him and how furious he’d been. I was nothing but a fuckin’ tool to him, one he manipulated to get what he wanted.

“I hated him then, but I hated myself more for buying into his damn act. I’d thought that being a vampire had elevated me somehow, made me better, but that wasn’t true. Alastair taught me that so I’d want to follow his orders. But really, I was nothing. I had no identity outside of the role he had given me. I hadn’t transcended my circumstances; they’d transcended me.

“Well, fuck that. I decided then and there that I never wanted to see Alastair again. When I left this place, I didn’t know what I wanted to do, just that I could never have another Alastair in my life. It was time for me to take control.

She flushes. “Turns out I didn’t know how to do that, though. Take control. So I came running to you like a loser. You were kind to me once, and I didn’t know where else to go. So. Castiel, what do you think I should do?”

“Get lost,” Dean interjects.

“Fuck you!” Meg shouts.

“Please do not fight,” Castiel pleads. “Dean, Meg is not here to harm us. Not this time. Meg, Dean means a lot to me. More than anything else.” With those words, Dean relaxes. “I will not have you antagonizing him.” Meg nods, seemingly chastened.

“Now. Meg, I do not think I can tell you what to do,” Castiel opines. “You must decide that for yourself.”

Meg worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I don’t know where to begin,” she replies, sounding despondent.

“It will not be easy,” Castiel acknowledges. “No doubt you need to give the matter a great deal of thought.” Meg’s eyes moisten, and Castiel sympathizes with her frustration and despair. “Come home with us. Dean and me. Then you can take the time to contemplate your options.” With Alastair dead, Castiel would like to return to Dean’s house, and he believes Dean feels the same way.

“Hell no!” Dean exclaims.

“Dean,” Castiel admonishes.

Dean nods at the door. “Can I talk to you alone for a minute?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. He follows Dean upstairs.

“What the hell, Cas!” Dean sputters.

“What?”

“You want to invite _Meg_ to the house?”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” Dean echoes, frustrated. “Cas, did you forget all the freakin’ crap she did?”

“Not at all. But if she wants to attempt to reform, I think we should encourage her.”

“I don’t think she wants to reform.”

Castiel waits a moment to respond. “Why do you say that?”

“She obviously still likes to torture people.”

“As do we.”

“Yeah, but we’re different.”

“Are we?”

Dean sighs. “’Course we are. Besides, what if it’s just an act?”

“Why would it be an act?”

“’Cause. She wants to get back at me for killing her dad.”

“That is a possibility,” Castiel concedes, frowning. “I still think we should give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“Why—”

“We can monitor her,” Castiel suggests. “Have one of us always watching her. If her actions are suspicious, we will tell her to leave.”

“No. In that case, we should gank her.”

“All right.” Dean’s proposition is reasonable. If Meg proves to be a threat to the world, she should not be allowed to go free.

“Fine. We’ll take her home, but she’s your responsibility,” Dean decides.

“Very well.”

They return to the basement, and Meg glances up at them, her manner hesitant. “Well? Are you gonna kill me after all?”

“No,” Castiel answers. “The offer still stands. Would you like to come home with us?”

“Okay,” Meg replies, her voice surprisingly meek.

xxxxxxxxxxx

It’s almost three in the morning when they arrive at the house. Dean unlocks the front door and leads Cas and Meg inside. “Uh,” Dean mumbles after he shuts the door behind them. “We don’t really have anywhere for you to sleep,” he tells Meg. “Guest bedroom is taken.”

“That’s cool,” Meg replies. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You can have the guest bedroom,” Cas cuts in.

“What? Don’t give up your bed for _her_ ,” Dean grumbles.

“I am not doing so,” Cas responds. He places a comforting hand on Dean’s arm. “I would like to sleep with you, if you do not mind?”

Oh. Hell, yeah, Dean likes that idea. He smirks at Cas. “’Course not.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “So. Guest bedroom’s mine?”

“Yes,” Cas says.

Sam loudly stumbles into the living room, and they all three turn to him. “What’re you doin’ here so late—?” Sam begins in a voice filled with sleep. After surveying the individuals before him, his eyes widen, and he stammers, “What—what in God’s name is _she_ doing here?”

“Polite, these Winchesters,” Meg gibes.

“What do you expect?” Sam counters. “You’re one of Alastair’s lackeys.”

“Not anymore.”

Sam snorts. “You expect me to believe that?”

“He’s dead,” Dean inserts.

“Well, there’s some good news at least.” Meg bristles under Sam’s scrutiny. “I still don’t understand what she’s doing here.”

“She needed a place to stay,” Cas explains.

“And you think she should stay here? Seriously, why’s she even still alive?” Dean agrees with Sam there.

“Let’s save the arguments for later, huh?” Meg suggests. “I’m fuckin’ tired. Haven’t slept in days.” She asks Cas, “Can you show me to the guest bedroom?”

“Yes,” Cas replies. They traipse into the hallway

“Seriously, what’s she doing here?” Sam repeats.

“It was Cas’s idea,” Dean says.

“Dude, I told you he was a problem.”

“Shut up,” Dean barks. “Look, I’m not a fan of this plan, either, but she fed us some damn sob story, and Cas lapped it up, all right?”

“But this is _your_ house, Dean,” Sam points out. “Not his. You had the right to refuse him.”

“I didn’t wanna start a fight, okay?”

Sam sighs. “God, I wish you’d stop bringin’ home these stray vampires. I swear, I’m movin’ out.”

“You do that, Sammy.” With Sam gone, he and Cas could fuck wherever they pleased (as soon as they got rid of Meg, anyway).

“I’m goin’ back to bed.” Sam announces before clomping back to his room.

In his bedroom, Dean finds Cas already stretched out, clad in nothing but his boxers. Dean strips down to his own boxers and slides into the bed with Cas. “I don’t trust her,” Dean murmurs.

“I know. I’m not sure I do, either,” Cas confesses.

Finally, Cas says something sensible about Meg. “How’re we gonna keep an eye on her if we both go to sleep?” Dean asks.

“I will not sleep,” Cas replies. “We can alternate our sleep schedules.”

“Bummer.” Dean would never admit it, but he loves snuggling up with Cas.

“May I still lie here with you?”

“’Course.” If Cas is awake, he’ll hear Meg’s movements even from another room. Dean wraps his arms around Cas, running hands over the smooth, muscled planes of his arms and chest before clasping them together over his breastbone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [Wikipedia entry](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Draft_riots) on the New York City Draft Riots. 
> 
> We're close to the end here. There will be one or possibly two more chapters and an epilogue. Also, there probably won't be an update for at least a week and a half.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Your thoughts are very welcome, as are kudos, etc.!


	22. Watch Us Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a bit of smut and a reference to past rape. (Sorry if the smut is terrible.)
> 
> I'm feeling really unsure about this chapter; I hope it's all right.

“I’m going to Sarah’s,” Sam announces to Dean in the hallway.

“Okay,” Dean says.

Sam gives Dean a wary look. “Will you be all right with _her_ here?”

Dean knows who Sam is referring to. “Yeah,” Dean mumbles, nodding.

“If she tries anything . . . ”

“We’ll be fine,” Dean assures him. Honestly, if Meg does try something, Sam is better off not being here.

“Okay.”

Dean follows Sam to the front door then joins Meg and Cas on the couch. Dean glances at the TV to see what’s captured their attention. A documentary about the early days of cinema. Dean snorts, surprised that Meg shares one of Cas’s nerdy interests.

Meg crosses her arms over her chest and scowls at Dean. “What?” she hurls.

“Nothin’,” Dean answers. “It’s just . . . I didn’t think you’d like this kind of thing.”

“So what if I do?” Meg counters. “It’s nostalgic, okay? I remember all this shit.”

With a pang, Dean realizes that in some ways Meg has more in common with Cas than he does. They’re both old, and they actually lived through stuff that’s ancient history to him.

Dean flinches when the doorbell rings. Dammit. He’d forgotten that Jo was coming over to take him down to the station. Or maybe his memory lapse been intentional, who knows? This is a big step. He’s finally quitting the force, and he’s enlisted Jo as moral support. The whole business wrenches a hole inside him.

Is it safe to leave Cas here alone with Meg? Probably. For some reason, she seems to have developed a soft spot for him.

The doorbell rings again, this time more insistently. Dean bounds off of the couch and flings the door open.

“Hey, Dean,” Jo greets him as she sweeps inside. When she spots Meg on the couch, her mouth hangs agape. “What’s this bitch doin’ here?” she spits.

“And a fine day to you, too,” Meg retorts. She raises an eyebrow.

“ _You_ ,” Jo hisses. “You were Alastair’s right-hand man. Woman.”

“Uh huh,” Meg confirms, nonchalant.

Jo’s eyes flit between Dean and Cas. “Explain.”

“We wouldn’t have survived Alastair without her,” Cas says.

“Uh. Yeah,” Dean mumbles. “When we got home from the Roadhouse last night, Alastair had escaped. He got the jump on us, and Meg came and helped us out against him.” He shrugs.

“Alastair is dead now,” Cas chimes in.

“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me about this?!” Jo splutters.

“Sorry?” Dean offers.

“Ugh. Whatever. So. What about all that shit she did to you guys? To other people? None of that has changed.”

“Meg made a mistake,” Cas argues.

“She didn’t just ‘make a mistake,’” Jo scoffs.

“We have all done things we are not proud of, have we not?” Cas reasons. “Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?”

“We haven’t done any of the crap _she_ has.” Cas looks stricken, and Dean’s heart burns. It hurts to see that expression on Cas. Plus, Jo’s wrong. During his time with Alastair, Dean had done some of the same stuff as Meg. Maybe he hadn’t been torturing people for as long as Meg had, but if matters had turned out differently, he could see it becoming a regular thing.

“I swear I’m on the straight and narrow,” Meg vows through clenched teeth.

Dean lays a hand on Jo’s shoulder. “Why don’t we just go?”

“Fine,” Jo sighs.

After they settle inside Jo’s cruiser, Dean confides, “Personally, I’m with you. We don’t owe Meg jack. But Cas thinks it’s worth giving her another shot. Maybe he’s right.” Much as it pains Dean to admit it, Meg and he are not so different. They had both flourished under Alastair’s tutelage. Like her, he’d enjoyed hurting others. Yeah, they're both sick fucks.

“Let’s hope so,” Jo mutters.

At the police station, Dean makes small talk with his colleagues. He’s going to miss working with these people. At least he’ll get to still hang out with them. Dean doesn’t have it in him to tell them he’s leaving the force, not without talking to Victor first. After a few minutes, Dean informs them that he needs to speak with Victor. Jo accompanies him to Victor’s door, where Dean takes a deep breath.

“Are you ready?” Jo ventures.

“No,” Dean answers. “But I don’t think I'll ever be.”

Jo squeezes his shoulder and eyes him sympathetically. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Jo returns to the others, and Dean knocks on the door, his knuckles trembling. “Come in,” Victor shouts. Dean turns the knob slowly and inches the door open. Victor smiles at him. “Oh, hey, Dean,” he says as he gestures to a chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.” After Dean sits down, Victor continues, “I’m glad you’re here. I think we should finalize a date for your return.”

A hollow feeling takes over Dean’s gut. “Yeah, about that,” Dean mumbles. Sweat breaks out on his brow, and it takes all of his will power to maintain Victor’s gaze.

“Yes?” Victor prompts him.

“Um. Well. I won’t be coming back.”

Victor chortles. “Very funny.” When he realizes that Dean isn’t laughing with him, Victor assumes a somber expression. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales. He laces his fingers together. “It’s just not the right fit for me anymore.”

“You’re sure this is what you wanna do?”

No. “Uh-huh.”

“Hmm. This is quite the surprise.” Victor launches into a description of all the paperwork and such Dean will have to do; then he makes a last-ditch effort to convince Dean to stay. When Dean firmly refuses, Victor sighs and says that he’ll miss Dean. He even praises Dean as one of the best cops he’s ever worked with. Regret bursts into Dean’s consciousness. He loves his job, but with things as they are now, resuming life as a cop is impossible.

“How’d it go?” Jo whispers into Dean’s ear after he exits Victor’s office.

“Okay, I guess,” Dean replies. He breaks the news to the others, who seem stunned. Charlie insists on planning a farewell party at the Roadhouse, and Dean consents.

Jo and Dean drive back to Dean’s house in silence. Dean is morose when they traipse inside, and Meg’s giggle doesn’t help. Cas smiles at her, and she flushes as she tries to suppress further laughter. What had been so funny? Dean notices that Meg looks youthful, even vibrant, and he experiences a stab of jealousy.

xxxxxxxxxx

Meg spends the next few days moping around, and frankly, Dean’s sick of her pitiful behavior. She lays in bed the majority of the day and night, and when she’s not there, she’s lounging on the couch. With an almost melancholy indifference, she accepts the blood Cas provides for her.

One day, Meg joins Dean on the couch while Cas is showering. A little strange, as she hardly ever leaves her room except to speak to Cas. Not that Dean cares. He ignores her and concentrates on the TV. After a minute, she pronounces, “I should’ve let you kill me.”

Stunned, Dean faces her. “What?”

Meg shrugs. “Now that I’m alone, there’s no point to anything. I’ve devoted my whole life to my father and Alastair, and. . . without them, it’s like there’s nothing really here for me. So.” She raises her eyebrows as if challenging him. “How ’bout it? You can kill me and tell your boyfriend that I attacked you.”

Dean gapes at her. “What?”

Meg swats him on the head. “Is there _anything_ in there? I know you’ve been thinking about it. Ending me. Now’s your chance.”

Of course that’s been on Dean’s mind, but he doesn’t want to gank Meg like this, not with her practically offering herself up for slaughter. It just doesn’t seem right. “No. I’m not doing that,” he says.

Her eyes water. “Wha—”

“Get over it!” Dean hisses at her.

Meg shakes her head. “I can’t,” she sniffles. “I don’t have it anymore. A cause. A reason to get up in the morning.”

“Are you tellin’ me that your reason for living was to serve those douchebags?!” Dean yells. Meg jumps at his raised voice before nodding. “Then you’re right,” Dean shouts. “You’re pathetic, and you deserve to die.” Meg hugs herself, but her eyes blaze with indignation. “Create your own damn cause. That’s what we do. Why do you think Cas and I wanted to stop Alastair? Hell, why do you think I was a cop? Not because I was following someone’s fuckin’ orders. The way I see it, it’s about time you started thinkin’ for yourself. Capisce?”

The fire dwindles in her eyes, and finally, she nods. She flashes him a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t go gettin’ all soft on me,” Dean rasps. Meg’s grin widens.

Huh. Never thought he’d be givin’ a pep talk to Meg, of all people.

xxxxxxxxxx

Fuck. Who the hell could be ringing the doorbell in the middle of the day? Dean’s afraid of exposing himself to the sun, even if only for the few seconds it takes to open the door. Whatever. He better get it so the person can stop smashing the doorbell.

The door swings open to reveal an attractive brown-haired woman. “Uh. Hi,” Dean says. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yes,” she replies. She steps inside without even asking permission and closes the door behind herself. “Are you Officer Dean Winchester?” Dean nods. “My name is Gwen Campbell. I’m with the FBI.” She whips out a badge, and the thing looks authentic enough. Shit, what the hell is the FBI doing here?

“Oh. Um.” Dean indicates the couch. “Let’s sit down, huh?”

“All right.” She perches on the recliner, and Dean takes the couch.

Footsteps pound into the room, and Cas pokes his head in to inquire, “Dean, who is it?”

“Some chick with the FBI,” Dean answers. Gwen looks askance at him.

“Who’re you?” Gwen asks Cas.

“Castiel,” Cas supplies.

“Would you care to join us? Maybe you can answer some of my questions, too.”

“Very well.” Cas sits next to Dean on the couch. The scent of Gwen’s blood heightens, as if she’s nervous.

“What’d you wanna talk about?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Gwen resumes. “We heard about the serial killer terrorizing this town, and we have a few questions for you.”

Who’s “we”? The FBI? Presumably, but it can’t be. Perhaps Dean isn’t as connected with the case as he used to be, but he probably would’ve heard if the FBI was gettin’ involved. Jo would’ve told him. “Cut the crap,” Dean urges. Cas looks startled by Dean’s words.

“Excuse me?” Gwen spouts.

“We both know you’re not with the FBI.”

“Of course I am.” She squirms under Cas’s intense gaze.

“She’s a hunter,” Cas concludes.

Shit. A vampire hunter? ’Course, Cas and he can take her on if they have to, but he’d prefer not to fight her. She’s just doing her job, and a vital one at that.

Gwen narrows her eyes at Cas. “How do you know about that?”

Might as well indulge her. Dean says, “Because. The serial killer’s a vampire. Obviously.”

She laughs nervously. “You’re kidding, right?”

“You know damn well I’m not,” Dean snaps.

“Fine. Let’s say you’re right. Why would you think that?”

“’Cause—”

Dean is interrupted by Meg walking into the living room. Gwen whips her head around to face Meg and jumps to her feet. “She’s one of them!” Gwen exclaims, expression disbelieving. “I saw her on the news!” She addresses Dean. “Why are you harboring one of them?”

“What’s going on?” Meg inserts. “Who’re you?”

Gwen doesn’t take her eyes off Dean. “Gwen Campbell.”

“You’re too late, sweet cheeks,” Dean explains. Gwen scowls at the last two words. “Alastair and his nest have been dead for almost a week. Cas and I took care of ’em.”

“So, what? You and your friend are hunters now?”

“Something like that.”

Gwen studies the three of them and points at Meg. “Then why is _she_ still mobile?”

“I defected,” Meg mentions.

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” Her eyes scan Dean once again, and he grows uncomfortable. A gleam enters her brown eyes as she suggests, “Why don’t we go outside and discuss this, Officer Winchester?”

“What?” Dean sputters.

“I said let’s go outside.”

“I don’t feel like it.” It dawns on Dean that he’ll never feel the sun on his skin again. His heart sinks at the thought.

Gwen draws a sword.

“Whoa, whoa!” Dean exclaims. “What the fuck?”

“You’re a vampire.”

Dean attempts to laugh off the suggestion. “What gave you that idea?”

“You’re all vampires.”

Cas stands up. “Put that sword away,” he orders. “We do not wish to confront you, but you are outnumbered three to one.”

Dean doesn’t think Cas should’ve have threatened the hunter, not yet, but it’s too late to backtrack. “Yeah. What he said,” Dean utters.

“We are not your enemy.”

“Like I said. We took care of the nest.”

“You expect me to believe you’re not a danger to society?” Gwen challenges.

“Yep. These dweebs only drink animal blood,” Meg asserts.

Gwen glares at her. “And what about you?”

Meg shrugs. “I’ve started on their diet. It’s not so bad.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove what?” says Dean.

“That you’re not dangerous.”

“How?”

“If we were dangerous, we would’ve attacked you by now,” Meg points out.

Gwen appears to be considering Meg’s words. “All right. Sounds reasonable enough. Would you submit to another test?”

“What test?” Dean asks.

“I can mix a truth serum. If you want to prove yourselves, drink it and answer my questions.”

Cas smacks a hand on his forehead. “Of course,” he mutters to himself. “We should’ve used that with Meg.” He turns to Gwen. “Can I see the recipe?”

They follow Gwen into the kitchen, where she concocts the potion on the table. Cas reads the instructions on the Post-It note and nods. “Yes. This is the same one Missouri gave Benny and me.”

Dean doesn’t know what Cas is referring to. Does he know how to make the truth potion? Sounds like it.

Gwen rummages in the cabinets until she finds three shot glasses. After filling them, she passes one to each of the others and urges, “Drink up.”

To Dean’s astonishment, Meg downs hers first. He’d gradually begun trusting Meg, especially after their discussion the other day, but a part of him will always be suspicious of her.

Cas sips his until the shot glass is empty. Dean stares at his serving, still unsure about ingesting whatever this shit is.

“Officer Winchester?” Gwen prods him.

“It is safe,” Cas assures him.

Dean gulps the liquid down, almost choking on its horrid taste.

Gwen alternates whom she questions, and the whole story comes pouring out, everything that’s occurred since the night Dean chased Alastair into the abandoned warehouse. Dean’s head feels fuzzy, as if he’s not fully in control. As the potion’s effect fades, Dean hears someone entering the house. Sam.

“Dean?” Sam calls. He trots into the kitchen and takes in the scene before him. “What’s going on?” He glares at Gwen. “Who’re you?”

“Oh, hello, Sam,” Cas says. “Do not fret. Everything is all right.”

Gwen eyes Dean. “This is your brother?”

“Yeah,” Dean rasps.

Gwen faces Sam. “You are aware that your brother is a vampire?”

“How do you know about that?” Sam replies. “And who are you?”

“Gwen Campbell.”

“She’s a hunter,” Cas adds.

“Hunter?” Sam says.

“I specialize in vampires,” Gwen elaborates. “Though I tackle other creatures when necessary.” Gwen gathers the ingredients she’d used for the serum and drops them into her bag. “Well. My work here is done. If I hear about any of you preying on humans . . . ”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Meg says.

“Okay then. I guess I’ll get going. It was nice to meet everyone.” She heads for the door, but, just as her hand lands on the knob, Meg hollers, “Wait!”

Gwen turns around. “Yes?”

Meg blushes. “Um. Can I come with you?” Gwen gazes at her with confusion. “I can be useful. You know my skill set. Please?” Gwen doesn’t say anything. “I mean it. I’ll even drink more of your stuff if you want me to.”

“All right.”

Meg makes a face as she drinks the serum once again.

Incredibly, her offer had been sincere. She leaves with Gwen. _Looks like Meg’s found her purpose_ , Dean reflects.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Castiel stretches out along the length of the bed and giggles as Dean lingers above him, peppering the scruff on Castiel’s chin with kisses.

“Thank God we’re finally alone,” Dean says against the corner of Castiel’s mouth.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. Sam is spending the night with his girlfriend, and Meg joined Gwen Campbell two days ago. Dean had seemed almost wistful when Meg departed. Castiel is not sure why. He had grown fond of Meg, but Dean had been mostly hostile to her. Dean would deny the notion, but Castiel believes he will miss Meg. She needed to leave town, anyway, since the populace would recognize her image. At least they will stay in contact with each other.

Dean’s lips brush Castiel’s. After a minute, Castiel plunges his tongue into Dean’s mouth, eliciting a moan.

Dean tugs at Castiel’s trenchcoat. “Let’s get this off,” he mutters against Castiel’s lips. Castiel sits up and shrugs off the coat along with his white dress shirt then unbuttons the top of Dean’s red flannel shirt. “This should come off, too,” Castiel opines. One by one, he slips the buttons through their holes until the shirt drapes open. Dean yanks it off and tosses it onto the floor. Dean shimmies out of his jeans, which he throws on top of his discarded shirt. He snaps open the button of Castiel’s jeans and draws them downward, knuckles brushing Castiel’s thighs. Castiel shivers at the touch, his cock hardening. He runs his hands over Dean’s butt as he pulls off the green-eyed man’s boxers. Dean groans, relaxing against the touch. As Castiel kneads Dean’s ass, Dean divests Castiel of his boxers then wraps a hand around Castiel’s penis.

“Oh,” Castiel whimpers. “Dean.” Castiel’s hands travel to Dean’s hips. He places a kiss on Dean’s thigh before enveloping his dick with one hand. With his other hand, Castiel grips Dean’s side as he runs a thumb up and down Dean’s shaft.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes. Castiel speeds up his pace. “Fuck yeah.” Dean’s hand stills on Castiel’s cock, and Castiel huffs in dismay before his lips encircle the tip of Dean’s dick. He laps at the leaking precome.

“Fuck yeah, Cas, feels so good,” Dean says.

Castiel takes Dean deeper into his mouth, tongue slathering the member. Dean’s hips thrust into Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel moans around Dean’s dick. When Dean’s movements grow jerky, Castiel pries his mouth off of Dean with an obscene pop. Dean whines at the loss of Castiel’s mouth, and Castiel soothes him by running a finger over Dean’s lips and sucking at the skin on his neck until a hickey develops. Dean’s skin is delicious even without the taste of blood.

Castiel sits up and retrieves a small bottle from a drawer in the bedside table and hands it to Dean. “I want you to fuck me,” he tells Dean.

Concern etches Dean’s brow. “You sure?” he whispers, puffs of air hitting Castiel’s neck.

Castiel knows they are both thinking of Alastair. Castiel had been reluctant to let Dean penetrate him before, afraid of evoking the feel of Alastair inside him. But he believes he is ready for Dean now. Besides, Dean will not be as savage as Alastair was. The sex will be completely different.

Yet it could still trigger memories of Alastair. Castiel quakes at the thought. He feels as if he will never fully recover from what Alastair did to him, digging into his skin and his soul. But he can learn to cope, and he wants Dean to have the experience of diving into Castiel just as he had experienced diving into Dean. They have pleasured each other in many ways, and the one glaring omission makes Castiel ache.

“Will you look at me?” Castiel whispers. “While you . . . ”

“Yeah,” Dean assents, his voice thick. “Whatever you want, baby.”

“Thank you,” Castiel exhales.

“Spread ’em,” Dean commands. Castiel’s dick twitches at Dean’s decisive tone. He opens his legs wide, and Dean’s eyes glisten with something indefinable. Something more than lust, something beyond love.

Dean rests on his knees before Castiel, lathers the lubricant over his fingers, and gently presses one finger at Castiel’s entrance. Castiel hisses. The burn, though mild, reminds him of the excruciating pain when Alastair had forced himself upon Castiel without any preparation. His eyes meet Dean’s, and he grounds himself. _This is Dean. Not Alastair. Dean. Dean will not do that._

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel responds. “Please continue.”

“Aye aye, captain.” Dean chortles at his own joke, and though the utterance is not that amusing, Castiel cannot help but laugh, too.

Dean slides the finger in up to the knuckle, and Castiel’s breath hitches. “Yes, Dean. That is perfect,” he encourages. He sinks onto Dean’s finger as it explores his interior. Dean adds a second finger, and Castiel shudders at the intrusion. Dean scissors his fingers, and Castiel sighs, content. A third finger soon follows, then a fourth. Castiel mewls when Dean hits that sweet spot inside him. Dean smirks and continues to prod Castiel’s prostate, and Castiel shoves upward, urging Dean’s fingers toward it. Castiel does not ever want this to end. Dean withdraws his fingers all too quickly, and Castiel groans in protest.

“Time for somethin’ better,” Dean murmurs. He coats his dick with the lubricant and positions himself at Castiel’s entrance. “Ready?” Castiel nods as he wraps his legs around Dean, calves insistently nudging Dean’s back. “Okay.” Dean’s tip glides in, and Castiel gasps. Dean begins with shallow thrusts and seems intent on not going any deeper. He is being much too careful, Castiel decides. Castiel squeezes Dean’s back with his calves, urging Dean further. He gives Castiel a questioning look, and Castiel nods. Dean shoves in to the hilt, and Castiel thrashes as Dean’s cock hits his prostate. Dean steadies himself against the mattress with one hand and strokes Castiel’s shaft with the other, and the combination is almost too much. He bucks against Dean, and Dean plunges in and out, in and out, ever deeper and more frenetic. Castiel recalls when Alastair had plundered him, ripping him to shreds, and he nearly screams. _No. This is Dean_. He looks into Dean’s eyes, and it calms him. Castiel’s eyes flutter closed, but the darkness is too reminiscent of Alastair, so he pries them open. Dean smashes his lips against Castiel’s, tongue ravaging his mouth in time with the movement of his cock and hands.

Castiel wishes he could ride this high forever.

“Dean, I’m—”

“Yeah, Cas—”

Castiel shudders as his orgasm wrings through him, milky white liquid splashing onto Dean’s hand and the bed. He feels Dean’s hips stutter against him as Dean fills him up. The sensation of Dean inside him losing control—it’s glorious. All the while, Dean’s eyes bore into his, neither of them blinking, both burning in a shared cocoon, and this must be the definition of pure ecstasy.

“Mmm, Cas,” Dean mumbles after they come down. He pecks Castiel on the temple. “Fuck,” he laughs.

Castiel smooths the limp hair hanging over Dean’s brow. “Dean,” he mutters, the syllable a caress on his tongue. More loudly, Castiel says, “We should clean up.”

“Later,” Dean sighs. He burrows against Castiel, tucking his head under Castiel’s chin. He sweeps his lips over Castiel’s clavicle and breathes, “Love you. So much.”

“I love you, too, Dean,” Castiel articulates. Dean closes his eyes.

_That, and so much more_ , Castiel muses. _You permeate me._

His eyes rake over Dean’s supine form. In Dean, Castiel has found what he has often craved, what he knows he doesn’t deserve.

Yet this treasure is his, and he will clasp it tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't much care for the introduction of the Campbells, but I did think Gwen had potential that unfortunately wasn't developed.
> 
> After the epilogue, the story will be finished. At that time, I'll include some final thoughts. I'm not sure when the epilogue will be posted; I'm quite busy this week. I wanted to post this chapter today so that I wouldn't go two weeks without updating. Anyway, I'll try to give more concrete details about an update on [my tumblr](http://angelofthemoor.tumblr.com/) when I can. The tumblr is still new, and I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it, but if you follow me, I'll follow you back! You can also contact me over there, if you wish.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and feedback is welcome! :)


	23. Epilogue--Family Secret

Six Months Later

Three weeks after Meg leaves town with Gwen Campbell, Sam moves into an apartment with Sarah. After that, Dean and Cas spend some badly needed time relaxing and, yes, fucking in almost every feasible nook and cranny in the house. They discuss their options. Cas came to town only to stop Alastair, and he thinks it's time to move on, but Dean says no dice. After all, this _is_ his home, and there are plenty of douchebags they can bring down right here in his backyard. Plus, Sam is family, and as long as he's alive, Dean wishes to be near him. The implication is left unspoken, but they both know it all the same—Dean will long outlive his brother. When that happens, Dean and Cas will pursue hunts all across the country. Sam dying before him . . . it’s something Dean’s never thought about, or wanted to imagine as a possibility, but of course things are different now. He muses that he could turn Sam, but he doesn’t want to burden Sam with the curse of vampirism. Besides, unlike him, Sam will not do almost anything to stay alive. All Sam's ever wanted is a normal life with a white-picket fence, a wife, and 2.5 kids, and goddammit, Dean’s not spoiling that for him.

Dean and Cas keep a close eye on the news and investigate anything suspicious within a day’s drive, catching the cases, supernatural or not, that fall between the cracks. They’ve already brought down one nest of vamps located about four hours south. There had been five of them, but Cas and he easily defeated the group. The effort required pales in comparison to that expended against Alastair, but Cas points out that Alastair ranks among the most powerful vampires he’s ever fought. With the entire nest taken into account, Alastair is definitely the most formidable foe Cas has faced in his life, and, well, Cas is over two hundred years old, so that’s quite something.

Now, Dean is whipping up dinner for tonight. Sam is coming over, and while Cas and he don’t need any food, it would be awkward to let Sam eat alone. Since he and Cas enjoy a good meal, why not make bacon cheeseburgers for everybody?

Dean hears Sam let himself into the house and shuffle into the kitchen. “Smells like a heart attack waiting to happen,” Sam comments.

Dean turns to him and grins. “Good thing I don’t have to worry about that.” Who says being a vampire doesn’t have its advantages?

Sam snorts. “Well, _I_ do.”

“Quit yer whinin’, Sammy. You can deal with eatin’ somethin’ besides rabbit food for once.” Sam rolls his eyes, retrieves a beer from the fridge, and claims a chair at the dining table. Dean piles fries and burgers onto three plates, places them on the table, and grabs two more beers. “Cas!” he calls. “Grub’s ready!”

Cas lumbers into the kitchen, hair dripping wet from the shower and water droplets forming spots on the shoulders of his blue shirt. Damn, but Cas looks gorgeous after a nice long shower. If Sammy wasn’t here, he’d be ravaging Cas’s lips already.

Sam clears his throat, and Dean flushes with the realization that he's staring at Cas with undisguised lust. He pries his eyes away from Cas and gestures at an empty chair. “That’s yours,” he murmurs.

Cas sinks into the seat and eyes the burger eagerly. “I have never eaten a hamburger before,” he announces. “I am looking forward to this novelty.”

“God, your life’s been so deprived,” Dean replies as he sits down between Sam and Cas. “I guarantee this will be the best thing you've ever experienced.”

“No,” Cas says. Dean frowns, and Cas smiles enigmatically. He brushes fingers over Dean’s knuckles and continues, “Nothing will ever be better than falling in love with you.”

Sam coughs ostentatiously, and Dean glares at him. If he and Cas were alone, they’d share a kiss. Still, that was so cheesy, and uttering that in front of Sam . . . _awkward_.

“Um. Let’s dig in, huh?” Dean suggests.

Cas bites into his burger first and moans in an almost lascivious fashion. Sam gapes at Cas, and Dean nearly chokes on his own burger. “Mmm. This is delicious,” Cas opines while still chewing, detritus prominent in his mouth. Jeez, he should learn some table manners.

“Told ya,” Dean mutters. He gulps down a significant portion of his beer before taking the largest bite he can manage.

“God, you two are disgusting,” Sam remarks.

Yeah, and Sam’s lame, what with his bird bites and looks of disapproval. “Hey, we could be drinkin’ blood right now,” Dean mentions. “Would you prefer that?” When Sam lived with them, Cas and Dean never drank their blood in front of Sam. Because seriously, the dude always got nauseous when he caught them sipping blood. Dean remembers the first time he’d seen Cas feed, his revulsion at the sight of Cas’s lips suctioned to a man’s throat. Yet he’d also felt a frisson of fascination. Maybe even then Dean had possessed the seed of deviance, buried deep down.

But he’s not a bad person, he reminds himself. It’s what they do with their desires, their skills, that matters. He and Cas will promote the good. Just because Dean’s no longer a cop doesn’t mean he can’t still help fix the world.

“Gross,” Sam mumbles. He nibbles at a fry.

Cas wolfs down the rest of his burger and turns to Dean. “I would like another, please,” he declares.

Good thing Dean made enough for everyone to have seconds. Not that Sam will eat another burger. Maybe he and Cas can split Sam’s.

Dean nods at a plate on the kitchen counter. “There’s more up there,” he tells Cas. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you,” Cas responds as he scrambles to his feet. When he returns to the table, a chunk is already missing from his burger. Maybe Dean’s found someone who likes bacon cheeseburgers almost as much as him. Just one more reason Cas is his soulmate.

After they finish their meal, Dean announces, “There’s apple pie for dessert.”

“Store-bought apple pie?” Sam replies. “No, thanks.”

“No, jackass,” Dean counters, blushing a little. “I made it from scratch.”

Sam snorts. “And you like to say you’re not domestic.”

“Can it,” Dean snips.

“You often extol the virtues of apple pie,” Cas tells Dean. “I am excited to discover whether or not it is worthy of such high praise.”

“It’s the best damn thing on earth,” Dean says. “Well, that and bacon cheeseburgers.” He drops everyone’s dishes in the sink and cuts into the pie. “Anyone want a la mode?”

“What does that mean?” Cas inquires.

Dean has grown used to explaining the obvious to Cas. “With ice cream. We’ve got vanilla. I’m having mine a la mode.”

“Oh. Then I shall do so as well.”

“Sam?”

“No, thanks. Don’t give me a big piece.”

Christ, but sometimes Sam’s like a girl, what with always watching what he eats. “If you say so, Samantha.” Dean can practically hear Sam’s grimace.

Dean microwaves his and Cas’s slices and gives Sam his miniscule portion. After Dean heaps ice cream onto the other two slices, he carries them to the table and slides one in front of Cas. Cas scoops up a substantial amount of ice cream and pie and shoves it into his mouth. His face embodies sheer delight, and Dean thanks the stars that Cas doesn’t emit another obscene moan. “Good?” Dean prompts.

“Very,” Cas affirms.

“'See? Pie's awesome.”

Cas swallows another bite and concurs, “Indeed.”

After everyone has consumed their pie, Sam gives Dean a significant look and asks, “Uh, Dean. Mind if we talk alone for a few minutes?”

Dean exchanges a glance with Cas then turns back to Sam. “Sure. You don’t mind, Cas?”

“Not at all,” Cas responds as he stands up. “I shall wait in the living room.”

“Cool.” After Cas has left the room, Dean says, “So. What’s up, Sammy?”

“Yeah. So.” Sam taps his fingers on the table nervously. “I’m gonna ask Sarah to marry me.”

Dean beams at him. “That’s awesome, Sammy! Congratulations.”

“Uh. Yeah.” Sam stares down at the table. “But here’s the thing, Dean.” His eyes meet Dean’s, their hazel broadcasting hesitancy. “I have to tell her. About you.”

Dean frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You know. About you and Cas. Being vampires.”

“Why the hell do you need to do that?” Dean asks sharply.

“Because.” Sam’s eyes shift away. “You’re not gonna age, right? She’s gonna wonder about that.”

True. “But why can’t you just wait until ten years from now? You know, when she notices Cas and I haven’t aged?”

“That wouldn’t be fair, Dean. If she’s gonna be a part of this family, she deserves to know what she’s getting herself into.”

“Yeah. Okay. I get it.” Dean bites his lip. “Sure you have to?”

Sam looks apologetic. “Yeah.”

Dean swallows. “All right.”

Sam heads toward the bathroom, and Dean joins Cas in the living room. “Hey, Cas,” Dean mumbles.

Cas covers Dean’s hand with his and grins. “Hello, Dean.” He studies Dean. “What is wrong?”

“It’s Sam. He . . . he’s gonna tell Sarah about us.”

Cas wrinkles his forehead. “Why? Doesn’t she already know that we are lovers?”

_Lovers_ . . . now that’s an awkward word. But it’s true, isn’t it? “Yeah, she does.” Dean elaborates, “But us being vampires . . . that’s what he’s gonna tell her.”

Cas pales. “Why?”

“’Cause. He wants to marry her, and he doesn’t think he should ask her to without, I dunno, letting her know the family secret,” Dean runs a hand through his hair self-consciously.

“Oh.” Cas squeezes Dean’s hand. “I see. Do not fret, Dean. We shall be all right.”

“How can you be so sure?”

That adorable small smile blossoms on Cas’s face. “If we can defeat Alastair, then I have faith that matters can work themselves out.”

Damn. When had Cas become so optimistic?

xxxxxxxxxx

Sam is poppin’ the question to Sarah tonight, and then they're coming over. Dean stares at the TV, not really processing what he sees and hears. What will Sarah think when Sam starts rambling about vampires? How’s she gonna act once she and Sam arrive? What’re he and Cas supposed to say to her?

Cas massages Dean’s knuckles and pecks him on the cheek. “It will be okay, Dean,” Cas assures him for the umpteenth time.

“I hope so,” Dean sighs.

The sound of Sam unlocking the door erupts into the tense air, and he and Sarah glide inside, accompanied by a gust of wind. Sam quickly shuts the door. Cas moves to the recliner, and Sam and Sarah sit on the couch, hands clasped together all the while. Dean notes the sizable diamond ring on Sarah's finger and breaks into a huge grin. Her cheeks glow with happiness, and so do Sam’s. “Congratulations,” Dean tells them.

Sarah grins a little shyly. “Thank you.” She laughs. “Sam told me the weirdest joke. He said that you and Castiel—” Her eyes dart to Cas then back to Dean. “—are vampires.” She rolls her eyes. “Right.”

Dean and Cas eye each other, communicating without speaking a word. Dean concentrates, and his fangs elongate. He opens his mouth to display the fangs to Sarah, and Cas does the same.

Sarah gawks at them, astonished. Dean smells a sliver of fear on her. “Oh. My. God,” she breathes.

“Yeah,” Dean mutters. He wills his fangs to detract, and Cas tucks his away as well.

Sarah leans into Sam as if seeking protection. “No, it can’t be,” she marvels, voice frightened. “You’re not him. Not Dean.” She turns to Sam. “He can’t be.”

“It’s him,” Sam confirms.

“And you,” she says to Cas. “I don’t even know who or what you are.”

“I am Castiel, and I am a vampire,” Cas answers smoothly, as if he's saying nothing out of the ordinary.

Sarah curls into herself. “But. How—why—how can this be?”

“Remember the serial killer?” Dean asks. Sarah nods. “Ever wonder why he suddenly disappeared six months ago?”

“Yeah, but. What’s that got to do with this?”

“Everything.”

“He was a vampire, too,” Castiel inserts. “Dean and I eliminated him and his nest.”

“What? Nest? What do you mean?”

“It's a group of vampires,” Dean answers.

“A group?”

“Yes,” Cas asserts. “The nest was responsible for the murders.”

Sarah replies, “So. What happened? They made you guys into vampires?”

“No,” Cas says, sounding despondent. “I was already a vampire. I turned Dean.”

“Turned him? You mean you made him into a vampire?”

“Yes,” Cas answers, ever matter-of-fact.

Sarah shrinks. “Then you. You’re dangerous.”

“No, he’s one of the good guys,” Dean corrects her. “Let me explain.”

He launches into the story, narrating his first meeting with Cas and the hunt for Alastair.

“My God,” Sarah says afterward, stunned and slightly teary.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Sam stipulates.

“Well, duh. Do I look like I wanna be locked up in the loony bin?”

Sam reddens. “No.”

“Any other skeletons in the closet?” Sarah half-jokes.

“No.”

Sarah sighs. “Well. Thanks for telling me about this—” She chews her bottom lip as she contemplates her word choice. “—situation.”

“Still wanna marry me?” Sam worries.

“Of course.” She grasps Sam’s sholders and presses her mouth to his. Their lips remain locked for-freakin’-ever, the kiss all passionate tongue.

“Jeez, get a room,” Dean gibes.

Sam flips Dean the bird behind his back.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean squeezes some toothpaste onto his toothbrush and then Cas’s. “Well. That went better than I thought it would,” Dean comments.

Cas pats him on the shoulder. “I told you everything would be all right.”

“Whatever, smartass.” Dean sweeps the toothbrush over his teeth, spits out the toothpaste, and stows the toothbrush back in its spot. Cas scrubs his teeth more methodically, eyes veiled in disapproval at Dean’s cursory effort. As always. God, it’s almost like he has a nagging wife. “What?” Dean gripes. “It’s not like my teeth are gonna rot.” Why brush his teeth, anyway? Seriously. Does dental health even matter for vampires?

“They might,” Cas objects after putting his toothbrush away. “We do use our teeth often.”

Valid point. Dean doesn’t have a response to that. He gazes at himself in the mirror and touches his fingers to the glass, tracing over the reflections of his scars. “I hate these,” Dean exhales. In the mirror, Dean observes Cas over his shoulder, blue eyes widening in sadness. Only then does Dean realize he's blurted out the thought.

“I do not hate them,” Cas proclaims.

“They’re hideous.” They match the ugliness inside him, the rot he discovered during his time with Alastair. Perhaps he deserves the scars; perhaps receiving them had been destiny.

Cas grips Dean’s shoulder and spins him around until they’re facing each other. “They are beautiful,” Cas counters.

“You’re just sayin’ that. You always say that.”

“Because it is true.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean scoffs.

Cas caresses the scars with his fingertips then grazes over them with his lips. Those lips travel to Dean’s ear, where Cas whispers, “I love them.” Dean shivers as Cas’s tongue flicks into his ear in time with the words. “They represent your strength. Your survival.” He places his hands on Dean’s shoulders and pulls back. “We are both survivors, you and I,” Cas intones. “And that is a beautiful thing, is it not?”

“I guess,” Dean huffs.

Cas wraps his arms around Dean, kisses him on the brow, and threads a hand through his hair. “Come. Let us go to bed,” Cas urges, mouth pressed against Dean’s temple.

“Yeah. Okay.” Cas throws one arm around Dean’s shoulders as they stumble toward the bedroom. They lie down, and Dean relishes the feel of Cas’s soft hair in his hand. Cas practically _purrs_ underneath the touch, and Dean smiles.

Cas is right, he decides. They are survivors, and that’s significant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always difficult for me to know what to say at the end. I enjoyed writing this fic, and I'll miss writing it. I hope you enjoyed reading it as well.
> 
> I've thought about writing a sequel, but I don't want to ruin the idea with overkill. I don't know what (if anything) I'll be writing next. I've thought about doing the Dean Cas Big Bang, and I've got an idea, but I'm a little hesitant, what with being relatively new to the fandom and all.
> 
> Before I came up with the idea for this story, I didn't care much for vampire stories (at least modern ones). Then this idea popped into my head, and I liked it. I hope the fic didn't turn out being too cliched. I didn't want it to be like a typical vampire story, but I still wanted to be true to common lore. I hope I successfully balanced these elements. When I began this fic, I envisioned a story of about half this length . . . shows how good I am at estimating things, lol.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://angelofthemoor.tumblr.com/) now, still pretty new. If you follow me, I'll follow you back. Also, if you ever feel like getting in touch with me, that's the place to do so.
> 
> And finally, most importantly, a massive thanks to you readers out there. Without you, I might not have been motivated to finish the fic. I am grateful and honored that so many of you have checked out this story! Your thoughts on the story are quite welcome. And thanks again! That cannot be said enough.


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